


By The Sea

by inndoors



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Early Season 2 Era, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, McDanno Style, Torture, Whump, as in they banter a lot and don't talk about shit until it blows up in their faces, mostly off screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27051721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inndoors/pseuds/inndoors
Summary: Danny doesn't harbor any hopes of getting through the case without being shot at (when does that ever happen for them?) but, all things considered, there seems to be a better-than-average chance he'll see the other side of this without losing any body parts.He quickly revises that assessment when he catches Steve piling up grenades on the kitchen table; there's a better-than-average chance he'll make it through this without losing any vital body parts. But since that's usually the best he can hope for anyway, it's really just another day at the office.---Or: When their latest case goes south, things get tense between Steve and Danny.
Relationships: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
Comments: 29
Kudos: 444
Collections: McDanno26, Ships





	1. Chapter 1

It's kind of ironic that Steve McGarrett, who knows better than most that Hawaii sees as much bloodshed as any other place in this world, lives somewhere straight out of a tourist brochure. He's got it all; a big home begging to be filled with family, bright green trees and tastefully blooming shrubs underneath a flawless azure sky, and of course a private beach, bordered by the royal blue stretch of the Pacific. 

That's where Danny's currently sitting, shoes gone and button-down untucked, beer in hand, wondering how the hell he ended up in a place like this. Even the clouds are perfect. A handful of them hang low above the horizon, fluffy little things, gilded by the afternoon sun.  He digs his toes into the fine white sand, breathes in the clean sea air, and allows himself to be affronted by how much it smells like home. Home used to be bus diesel and street food, now it's salt and sunscreen and deodorant and the occasional hint of pineapple.

It's tragic.

"Listen, I know you were grown in a cloning chamber as part of some sinister super soldier experiment." He tears his eyes away from the postcard landscape in front of them to watch the smirk appear on Steve's face, and squints at him. "So it’s not surprising nobody ever taught you any manners, but I'm a generous person, okay? I'm a very generous person, and I'm gonna help you catch up. Free of charge. Ready for your first lesson? Here it goes. This thing you're doing right now, it's called staring. And in the real world, among us normal people, it's generally not considered a very polite thing to do."

Steve, who has been looking at him for the better part of five minutes, takes a sip of the pastel yellow concoction he's holding. "Admit it."

There's no way Danny is making it that easy for him. "Admit what? Use your words, Steven."

"You like it here," Steve says, head tipped back. "Who wouldn't like it here?"

"Let me see. Well, for one, vampires. Also," Danny raises his foot, which is covered in sand, and gestures at it with the beer he's holding, "Anakin Skywalker."

"Folkloric monsters and Star Wars villains." Steve nods, painfully unimpressed. "Got it."

Danny isn't done. "People who are allergic to pineapple," he continues, ticking his examples off on the fingers of his free hand. "People who are allergic to sunscreen. People who are allergic to the  _ sun _ ."

"You're not allergic to any of those things, Danno."

"We're not talking about me."

"No we're not," Steve says, "because you like it here."

Danny pulls up his foot again and shakes it for emphasis. He gets sand all over Steve's leg. It illustrates his point nicely. "I don't think I own a single pair of shoes that isn't filled with sand."

"You could wear flip-flops."

"Over my dead body."

Steve smirks at him over the rim of his glass. "Come on. Admit it. You like this place. You like the beach."

Danny stares at him, a wordless dare to take it back. Steve, predictably, doesn't, so Danny gives up and looks at the ocean instead. Before moving here, he didn't think this shade of blue even existed in nature. 

"I've gotten used to it," he allows. "The professional term would be Stockholm syndrome."

"Stockholm - are you serious?"

"Absolutely." When he turns back to Steve, the smirk has only grown. "Stockholm syndrome. You can't escape the beach here - and I do mean that quite literally. I don't think I'll ever stop finding sand in my clothes, even if I move back to the mainland. I had to start liking it. Ever heard of the Mere Exposure effect?"

"You're ridiculous," Steve tells him, and takes another sip.

"Says the man who's drinking a banana protein shake when he could be drinking beer."

Steve points at his blue boardies. They're still wet, soaking the bleached wood of his deck chair. "I just swam for an hour."

"Case in point," Danny says, and jabs a finger at Steve's bare chest. "Stockholm syndrome is the best you're gonna get, babe. Take it and shut up."

Steve snorts but obeys, which is a small miracle in itself. They lapse into comfortable silence, watching as the sky shifts slowly from brilliant blue to peachy-gold. It's quiet and peaceful, two things Steve famously hates, so of course it doesn't last. He lets Danny finish his beer then turns to him, and Danny can tell from the expression on his face that he's not going to like this.

"So," he says. His brows are drawn together, bordering on Aneurysm Face territory. Danny thumps his head against the back of his chair. He's  _ really  _ not going to like this. "Rachel."

Danny looks up at the sky like he's hoping some higher power will show him mercy and strike him down to put an end to this conversation. It's purely for effect. He gave up hope of being saved by divine intervention somewhere between the third and eighth time Steve dangled a suspect off of some elevated surface to get a name or a statement or a rise out of Danny.

Steve's been back on this train ever since Danny announced that, even though the first two dates he's been on with Gabby were nice, there probably won't be a third. Contrary to what Steve believes, it has nothing to do with Rachel. Danny isn't ready, is all. For a new relationship or, more accurately, for the relationship arguments that are a given in a line of work that routinely forces you to choose between your job and your private life.

Alright, so maybe it has something to do with Rachel. But Danny came here to relax, not to discuss the ins and outs of why his marriage failed.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding." He puts up a hand, shielding his eyes from the sun so he can meet Steve's properly. "You're the one who needs a therapist, not me. I did my mandatory psych eval last month. I passed with flying colors, I'll have you know. You don't get to play shrink for me, McGarrett, you're not qualified."

That doesn't impress Steve. Logical arguments rarely do. "I don't need a degree in psychology to tell you that this isn’t healthy."

Healthy. Danny snorts. "You're never this concerned about me when you get me shot, do you realize that? A bleeding bullet hole in my actual, physical body doesn't worry you as much as my lack of a love life. You need to sort out your priorities."

Steve doesn't answer right away but he's doing another  weird thing with his face, something Danny's seen him do while talking to a scared civilian, or to Kono after a difficult case. It makes him look so stupidly  soft , softer than he has any right to look, dumbass Navy SEAL that he is, barely-concealed concern written all over his features. Danny feels the fight drain out of him, can't really bring himself to be offended, even though they've had this conversation four times, and he's made it clear he doesn't want to have it again, also four times.

"Look, I appreciate this," he says, because he does, even though he isn't convinced Steven Shoot-First McGarrett is cut out for the role of task force guidance counselor. "Whatever it is you're doing. But I'm fine. Seriously. So you can let it go."

Steve looks doubtful, which probably means sometime in the not-so-distant future Danny will end up having to tell him again, but he relents for now, with a shrug and a half-hearted "Alright," and abandons what's left of his protein shake to reach for the handle of the cooler they put down between their chairs. "Beer?"

" _Please_."

Steve hands him one and clinks their bottles together, and they settle back into companionable silence. Danny closes his eyes and tilts his face towards the setting sun, enjoys the contrast of the warm summer breeze and the cool beer in his hands. 

Between the soft murmur of the waves and the familiar sound of Steve's calm breathing, he's close to dozing off when Steve breaks the silence again. He doesn't say anything this time, just shifts in his chair, but Danny cracks one eye open to check on him and catches him messing with the scar on his abdomen. It's been a little over a month since Hesse shanked him and Max removed the stitches two weeks ago, but the scar is here to stay. It's a pink smear, still raw, standing out starkly against the tan skin surrounding it. 

Sometimes, when Steve gets lost in thought, he'll touch it. Like a reminder, an anchor permanently embedded in his skin.  Danny wonders what’s on his mind when he does it. His dad, maybe. Or Hesse, and how Steve didn’t get to be the one to kill him. Or, hell, maybe nothing of the sort. Maybe Steve touches his scars, all those marks of his too-close brushes with death, and thinks about tomorrow’s surf report, or his grocery list.

He's touching it right now, running thoughtful fingers along the jagged edge over and over, slow and methodical. Every once in a while his thumb will move up, flit across the dip between his abs before finding the scar again, pushing the edge of his nail into the raised tissue. Danny doesn’t know what’s on Steve’s mind but he, for one, is pondering all the many ways in which Steve could still fuck up the healing process - scars can tear open easily, Danny knows this, and swimming for an hour seems like a great way to accomplish that. 

He’s trying to decide if the added risk makes the swim more entertaining to Steve when he feels eyes on his face and glances up to find Steve looking at him, eyebrows raised, expression guarded. That's when Danny realizes he's been staring.

The realization settles like a weight on his chest, thick and electric, wrapping tight around his throat, heating up his cheeks and kicking his heartbeat up a few gears. He swallows, but before he can say something ill-advised - something like 'looks much better', which Steve would no doubt take as a challenge to pull some stupid stunt and make it look much worse - they're saved by Steve's phone.

Steve curses, spends ten seconds fishing for it in the folds of his towel and finally answers it, and the strange tension is gone.

"McGarrett." He listens for a beat, then meets Danny's eyes, and Danny knows he won't get to finish his beer. "Alright. We're coming in."

"It's Saturday," Danny tells him, when Steve hangs up and motions him to get out of his chair. "Saturday afternoon. Weekend time, Steve ."

"Yep," says Steve and slips into his stupid flip-flops. "Let's go."

When they arrive at the Governor's office, Steve back in cargo pants and Danny professional as always even though he really shouldn't have to be wearing work clothes right now, they're greeted by the Governor's secretary.

"Governor Denning is ready for you," she says, and they follow her into the office, where the Governor is waiting for them behind a stack of files.

"Thank you for coming." He gestures at the chairs in front of his desk, radiating an air of polite impatience Danny can't help but admire. It takes balls, pulling off impatience at 5:30 PM  on a _ Saturday _ . "Have a seat. I apologize for disturbing your weekend but I'm afraid this case can't wait."

The case turns out to be about David Moore, key witness in the trial against  _ alleged  _ arms dealer and mob affiliate Ricky Gallo. He walked in on a business transaction in Boston and ID'd Gallo when he was arrested after fleeing to Hawaii. Moore has been in witness protection ever since and is scheduled to testify in court on Monday. The stakes are, of course, astronomically high. Without this testimony, Gallo will walk free. High stakes but predictable details, right down to a string of previous witnesses who were conveniently murdered before they could make an appearance in court.

"And we're supposed to make sure that doesn't happen to Moore," Steve concludes.

"Precisely," says Denning and slides one of the files closer to him. Attached to it is a picture of Moore; he looks like a skinny tax accountant in his mid to late thirties, receding hairline and horn rimmed glasses included, and Danny wonders how the hell he got caught up in this. "This morning his location was compromised. Moore and the agents tasked with protecting him were able to escape, but it was a close call."

Danny exchanges one look with Steve, and he knows they're thinking the same thing. They've worked enough cases like this and it doesn't take a genius to figure out they're probably dealing with a mole.

"That's where we come in," he says.

Denning nods. "Moore will be moved to a new secure location, but the current security measures are clearly insufficient. I want more people on the case. And in light of what happened during General Pak's visit, Five-0 seems like the right team for the job."

Danny thinks back to Nick's body floating in the surf, to the empty look haunting Steve's face for weeks, and for a moment he's actually glad Rachel dumped him again. He likes the work he does with Five-0 but between the frankly stupid hours and the insane risks they take on a day-to-day basis, this job is anything but family-friendly. Then he remembers he could be in Jersey right now if Rachel hadn't moved back in with Stan, solving normal cases on a normal schedule.

He stubbornly ignores the twinge of guilty relief he feels at having escaped that fate.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when Steve picks up the file. 

"I have one condition," he says, and Danny somehow manages to resist the urge to kick him under the table but still shoots him a look that says _please_ stop or, less succinctly,  _ you were framed for murdering his predecessor less than two months ago so please don't argue with the Governor _ . Steve ignores him, as he does, and keeps going: "Pull the FBI off the case. We don't need backup."

Denning's brows meet his hairline and Danny flattens his fingers against his temples to fight off the oncoming headache. The worst thing is that Steve's request is actually reasonable.

"I can't do that," says Denning.

"We're clearly dealing with a leak." Steve tosses the file onto the table, folds his arms and lifts his chin. "If you send in the same people, you'll get the same outcome. I'm not leading my team into a trap."

He looks at Danny, who sighs. "With all due respect, Sir, he's right."

Denning hesitates, but after a moment he nods. "Have it your way. But make no mistake, Commander; if this goes sideways, you will take the blame."

They engage in a stare down so intense Danny has to close his eyes to stop himself from rolling them, but it only lasts a few seconds before Steve gets up. "It won't."

Famous last words, thinks Danny, and starts massaging his temples again.

M oore sustained some minor injuries during his escape so he's waiting for them at the hospital, the door of his room flanked by HPD officers. Chin, Kono and Lori are there too, but Denning holds up his end of the bargain: By the time Steve and Danny arrive, there isn't a single FBI jacket in sight.

Besides the cops, the only person there is a woman who's about to leave when they get there. She's tall and beautiful, all beach blond locks and mile-long legs in a tight pencil skirt, and when she tucks the files she's carrying underneath her elbow to deal out a round of firm handshakes, Danny catches a glimpse of ink underneath her silk blouse. Upon closer inspection, it turns out to be a flock of swallows taking flight from her collarbone.

"Elizabeth Berger. I'm the deputy prosecutor assigned to the case." Her gaze lingers on Danny's face just long enough to make him feel pretty good about himself. "I was so relieved when I heard Five-0 was taking over. I've heard only good things about you. I'm sure David is in good hands."

She squeezes his hand one last time, and Danny thinks,  _ damn _ . If they weren't working a high stakes case right now he'd have to ask for her number. He hasn't suddenly changed his mind about relationships, but he's still human and it's hard not to feel smug. Chin is the kind of handsome that makes Hawaiian shirts look good, and Steve thinks cargo pants are acceptable work attire and still never fails to look like he just waltzed out of a GQ fashion spread, but it's Danny she's eyeing. Come on.

Then she's off, and Steve shoulders past him, Aneurysm Face making a surprise appearance. "Seriously?"

Danny takes a few fast steps to keep up with him. "What?"

"Can you focus?"  


"I am focused! I'm perfectly focused - what, I’m not allowed to  _ look _ ?"

Steve shakes his head but shuts up when they enter the hospital room, and Danny remembers that they are, in fact, working a high stakes case right now. Moore looks so tired Danny's surprised he's able to sit, let alone stand up straight, which actually works in their favor. He doesn't question them at all when they make their introductions and load him into a nondescript rental truck that Steve procured before they got here.

They drive him to the safehouse which, of course, is in the middle of the jungle. A nice city apartment with good security and decent takeout places nearby would just be way too normal for a Five-0 case. 

But at least it should be easy to fortify. It has one floor and only two doors leading outside, it's located in the middle of a clearing, and the security system almost meets Chin's very high standards. So even though Danny doesn't harbor any hopes of getting through the case without being shot at (when does that ever happen for them?) there seems to be at least a better-than-average chance he'll see the other side of this without losing any body parts.

He quickly revises that assessment when he catches Steve piling up grenades on the kitchen table; there's a better-than-average chance he'll make it through this without losing any  _ vital  _ body parts. But since that's usually the best he can hope for anyway, it's really just another day at the office.

The rest of the evening is quiet, in the same way the ocean is quiet while storm clouds are brewing overhead. They put Moore up in the bedroom and then split up: Chin stays with him, Lori and Kono get comfortable in the kitchen, decked out with a pot of coffee and a laptop so they can monitor the security cameras, and Steve and Danny set up camp in the living room. 

They're supposed to nap for two hours and then relieve the women, which of course means Danny can't fall asleep to save his life. The sofa is too uncomfortable, the house is too quiet, the jungle outside is too loud. He stares at the ceiling until he gets sick of it and then he rolls onto his side and stares at the dark living room instead. Eventually, his eyes land on Steve.

He’s sleeping on the ground right next to Danny, on his sleeping bag as opposed to in it, which could be a Navy thing or a Steve thing or a 'this is Hawaii and it's still 75 degrees at night' thing, who knows. He's fast asleep, stretched out on his front with his head pillowed on his folded arms, the long line of his body as relaxed as it ever gets. The door to the kitchen is halfway open, letting some light into the living room, and it illuminates the upturned side of Steve's face in a way that makes him look young, peaceful, laughably innocent. The illusion would be more convincing if he wasn't sleeping with a gun next to his head but Danny finds it hard not to notice the way his suntanned skin looks so warm in the artificial light, or the long shadows his eyelashes are casting on his cheeks.

He doesn’t have a thing for Steve. Steve’s way too infuriating. What he does have, however, is a healthy appreciation for Steve’s appearance, because infuriating personality or not, the package Steve comes in is very aesthetically pleasing, and Danny is very human, and very bi.

Then Steve shifts in his sleep, rolling onto his side to face Danny, and Danny feels like a creep. This sleep thing clearly isn't working out for him. Maybe it’s time he stopped trying.

Lori smiles at him up when he enters the kitchen. Kono is sitting next to her, clutching her coffee with both hands. Danny gets a smile from her too but it's not nearly as bright; she looks like she's twenty seconds away from passing out on the nearest horizontal surface, which doesn't surprise Danny one bit. This was supposed to be their day off. She probably spent the afternoon on a board.

"Can't sleep?" Lori asks.

Danny leans against the kitchen counter with a fresh serving of hot caffeine. "Every time I hear a noise from outside I'm sure we're about to get jumped by an army of assassins." He raises his mug to his lips, but glares at the dark window instead of taking a sip. The coffee steam feels comfortably warm against his skin. "And because I've been spending way too much time with McGarrett, I'm just picturing them rappling down from the ceiling. That’s what he would do. He's sleeping like a baby, by the way. I think the closer he is to danger the calmer he gets."

"We're not that close right now." Kono detaches her pinky from her mug to point at the laptop. "It's quiet."

That's nice. If only it could stay that way.

Lori is watching him closely, which reminds Danny she used to make a living reading people. He resolutely forces himself not to shift under her gaze - he doesn't need another impromptu therapy session, thanks - but Lori turns away after a moment and when she speaks again it's to ask a question, not to share a slightly invasive observation slash assumption.

"Think we'll get through the weekend without being attacked?"

Danny laughs. Even Kono manages a tired chuckle. 

"No. No way, absolutely not. That's not how things go down around here. Statistically speaking, it’s impossible." He pauses, giving himself a moment to dream about a world where Five-0 can close a case without wading through a hail of bullets first, then adds: "And I'd be worried."

"Worried?"

Danny uses his mug to gesture at the heap of grenades behind the laptop. Only half of them are smoke bombs. "All of that SuperSEAL adrenaline has to go somewhere. I've seen what happens when he gets bored. It's not pretty."

The moment those words are out of his mouth, he freezes. He shouldn't have said that. He trusts Lori, but he hasn't forgotten that she's here to chaperon them (well, Steve) and to report back to the Governor if they (Steve) cross a line. But Lori just smiles at him.

"I don't know what you mean," she says. "I don't see anything."

Danny feels an answering smile spread across his face. She's a great addition to the team, not that Danny ever doubted it. That was Steve, which makes it even better: Steve was wrong, Danny was right. Danny loves it when that happens.

Steve apparently heard him because he chooses that moment to join them, sleep-ruffled but clearly awake. It's freaky. It's bad enough he commandeered Danny's car. He better stay the hell out of Danny's thoughts.

"We can take over," Steve offers. Well, states. It's phrased like an offer but he says it in a tone that won't take no for an answer. He must have seen Kono's state too.

Lori hesitates. "You still have an hour left before we have to switch."

But Kono is already getting up, clearly not about to argue with Steve's self-sacrificial tendencies. "Great." She drains her coffee, puts the mug in the sink and slinks past Steve like she's half-asleep already, caffeine be damned. "See you in the morning, boss."

"Well, alright." Lori slides out of her seat gracefully and Steve immediately claims it. "You two have fun."

"Sleep well," Danny says.

Steve just grunts like the Neanderthal he is, staring at the monitor. He's apparently satisfied with what he sees or doesn't see because he gets distracted a moment later, starts sorting through the equipment strewn across the table.

"Are you even legally allowed to own those?" Danny points at the pile of explosives as he pulls out a chair to sit next to Steve. "You know, now that you kind of lost the immunity part of 'full immunity and means'."

Steve is fumbling with the strap on a pair of night vision goggles and doesn't so much as glance up when Danny joins him at the table. "Would I have them otherwise?"

"Would you- what? Yes!" Danny says this with an absolute kind of certainty, the sort that's normally reserved for arguing against fruit on pizza. Grenades might be the only thing worse than that. "What kind of question is that? Since when do you care about the rules? That's a no, right? You're not allowed to have them."  


Steve looks up and smirks at him, and Danny realizes it's probably best not to ask again. Plausible deniability and all that. 

He rests his chin in his palm and takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Commander Competitive struggling with his equipment, then feels the need to add something: "Just so we're clear; the day you upgrade to rocket launchers is the day I walk."

Steve finally manages to untwist the strap and drops the goggles triumphantly, like he won some kind of challenge Danny set for him. There's that smirk again. "I'll keep it in mind."

"The same goes for the other side too," Danny says. "I'll put up with a lot of things - bullets, poison, your driving, sand in my shoes - but bad guys with rocket launchers, that's where I draw the line. I don't want to live in a Die Hard movie, I never- what?"

Steve's stopped paying attention to him. He's staring at the monitor with an intensity that sends Danny's fingers flying to his gun. One hand on his holster he leans into Steve's space to get a look, careful not to spill coffee on him or the laptop. 

At first, he sees nothing weird. Just a slightly grainy grayscale of grass and bushes swaying softly in a light breeze. Then there's movement, wavering leaves and rustling branches, like something is sneaking around just beyond the treeline.

"Boar?"

Steve doesn't answer. 

The leaves tremble again. A shadow emerges from the jungle and moves slowly, carefully, towards the house. It's too dark to make out a face, but not nearly dark enough to leave any room for ambiguity about the fact that the shape comes with two legs and two arms and one very big gun. 

Danny sighs.  "So, not a boar."

"Not a boar," Steve agrees, as more people spill out into the clearing. Danny counts four, which means they're probably dealing with at least eight. That's usually how these things go. "Get the others."

Danny doesn't need to be told twice .

T hey request HPD backup and set up base in the living room, keeping the light there turned off and the one in the kitchen on so their attackers won't know they've been noticed. And then they wait. The laptop remains on the kitchen table, abandoned; it's useless to them, now that the men outside are close enough to change tactics. Instead of approaching in full view of the cameras they're sticking to shadows and dead angles, virtually invisible.

The minutes tick by slowly. The room is silent save for the quiet sound of their breathing and Danny feels calm in a way he only ever does when there's more adrenaline in his veins than blood. Then there's a noise from outside, a soft creak like someone is coming up the front steps.

Steve keeps his head down as he crosses the room, movements fluid like water, and positions himself next to the main entrance. Danny follows, wedging himself into the narrow stretch of wall between door and window, his gun a familiar weight in his hands. He hears that noise again, closer now, combat boots scraping against wood. Steve's eyes meet Danny's and he jerks his chin at the door. Danny shifts his gun into one hand and reaches for the handle.

"On three."

Steve's eyes look black in the darkness. He nods and slides his finger over the trigger.

"One." Danny's hand closes around the handle. "Two." The brass is cool to the touch and digs into his palm when he grips it tightly. "Thr-"

A gunshot shatters the window next to Danny's head, followed by a metallic clank, and Danny's already turning away when Steve yells, "Close your ey-!" 

The last syllable of his sentence is swallowed by a light so blindingly white it burns Danny's retinas even though his body is angled away. There must have been a bang too, that's how flash grenades work, but Danny can't be sure because all of his senses are fucked to hell. He can't see anything but white, his ears are ringing; he isn't even sure if he's standing up or lying down, doesn't know if the thing between his hands is his gun or his own head. 

There is only one thing he knows for sure: if he doesn't move right now he's going to die.

When he forces his eyes open, the world is a mess of dark shapes and dancing blotches of color. He blinks rapidly until the fireworks fade and pitch black turns into gray, until he's able to make out shadows and rapidly moving figures. The first solid thing he sees is the open door, halfway blocked by a too-still body. His heart stops beating for the moment it takes him to realize that the man on the ground is too broad to be Steve or Chin, and once it gets going again Danny jerks the gun out of the corpse's hand and throws it far away.

Then he looks up. The shadows shift into two people pummelling each other less than five feet away, and one of them is unmistakably Steve. Danny knows he shouldn't know that, half-blinded and temporarily deafened by the explosion as he is, and he also knows he's right. He knows the way Steve moves like he knows the roar of the Camaro's engine or the way his bed squeaks when Danny drops into it late at night.

Beyond that, beyond Steve, he can't see anything. It's too dark; he can't even tell how many people are still in the room, let alone if Moore is among them. He pushes himself against the wall at his back, sends a prayer to whoever might be listening that nobody's paying attention to him, and stands. If the others escaped with Moore they probably went through the backdoor. If they need help-

There's another flash, this one electric blue and contained and every bit as world-stopping as the last because Steve crumples to the floor mid-punch, twitching sickeningly. Danny's gun is up and discharged before he has a moment to think about it. The man Steve's been fighting falls with a thud. The shape next to Steve turns towards Danny, still holding the taser, and Danny aims at his chest, pulls the trigger, and-

Something collides with the back of his head and the world turns black.


	2. Chapter 2

Danny wakes up feeling like someone took a jackhammer to his brain and left him to deal with the aftershocks. It hurts so bad he can't make himself open his eyes and when he tries to touch the back of his skull, where the pain is radiating from, he realizes he can't move his hands - his wrists are cuffed behind the back of a chair, a chair he's tied to with ropes that are wrapped tightly around his legs and upper arms.

All in all, he's had better mornings.

He tugs frantically at his restraints, and immediately regrets it when the movement cuts through the throbbing haze in his head like a white-hot knife. It's no use anyway; he might be able to get out of the cuffs if he finds a piece of wire, but he has no idea what to do about the ropes.

The pain is fading now, enough that he's starting to hear himself think again, and with every coherent thought that crawls through his mind the panic builds, twisting his stomach, closing up his throat. One moment Danny's mainly worried about the ache in his head and the cotton stuffing occupying the space where his brain is supposed to be, the next the air is too thin and the ropes are too tight and he's going to die here, _fuck-_

He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a deep breath of musty, stale air.

"Pull yourself together, Williams." Talking hurts, but it's grounding to hear his own voice. "You're a detective. You wanna get out of here, detect a way to get out of here."

He makes himself scan the room. It's damp and dusty, probably located underground judging by the chill in the air, and the crisscrossing pipes running along the bare brick walls make it feel just cramped enough that Danny's claustrophobia is threatening to say hello. The door is a sheet of rusted metal, hanging precariously from its hinges. No windows. The only source of light is a naked bulb dangling from the low hanging ceiling. It's definitely a 'nobody will hear you scream' type of setting.

And then there's the cherry on top of this pile of shit: He has no clue where he is. He wasn't exactly alert during the drive here. They could be halfway across the island, for all he knows. All he has are brief flashes of sensation: being pushed into a truck, the cool glass of a car window against his cheek, unfamiliar voices and a familiar groan, the warmth of a limp body seeping into his side.

Oh.

So they got Steve, too. Danny quickly tamps down on a flare of worry in his gut - this is a silver lining. It has to be. Steve will be just fine. It's their kidnappers who should be worried, because a pissed off Steve McGarrett is a force of nature. He's going to tear this place apart like a hurricane.

He holds onto that thought like a lifeline and it calms the flutter of fear in his chest, allows him to stay composed enough to take stock. The headache is still going strong, his shoulders are starting to complain, his wrists are sore and his knee informs him his ACL took great offense to the way the night has been going - but, hey. Other than that, he's fine. Screwed, sure, but physically he's mostly okay. He wonders how long that's going to last.

The answer to that comes in the form of two visitors. 

Danny's barely been awake long enough to get used to the bad lighting when the door squeaks open and in comes not Steve, guns blazing, but two guys Danny has never seen in his life. They're both mainlanders - it's just not possible to live in Hawaii for more than a week and still be so pasty pale and yes, Danny knows that because he tried - and that, combined with the fact that they're clearly not here to rescue Danny, tells him they're Gallo's men.

Which, yeah. Duh. Stellar detective work there.

"Detective Williams," the shorter one of the pair says around a slimy smile Danny desperately wants to wipe off his face. He's balding and kind of scrawny but he holds himself with an air of authority that suggests he's probably the one who runs things around here. "I trust you're comfortable?"

"Can't complain," Danny retorts, voice edged with sweetness. "Actually, yeah. I can. How about you take these off?"

He shakes his wrists, jangling the cuffs. The guy just keeps smirking.

"If you cooperate, maybe we will."

Danny highly doubts that. "Cooperate?"

"Where did your team take Moore?"

That loosens a knot in Danny's chest he wasn't even aware of until now. Sounds like Chin, Kono and Lori got away with the witness.

"Can't help you there, sorry." He tries to spread his arms, an apologetic gesture, but the ropes put an immediate stop to that plan. "That's classified information." 

There's also the fact that he has no idea where they took Moore, which is probably not the worst thing under these circumstances.

"Then I suggest you declassify it," the guy says, and looks over his shoulder at his buddy. "Or Marco here will ask again, and his way of extracting information is less than diplomatic, I'm afraid."

Marco is freakishly tall and built like a tank, and something about his slightly vacant expression tells Danny he's probably not here for his conversational skills. He's also wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, inside, so he's most definitely a douchebag. 

The wired frame might be just thin enough to fit into a handcuff lock.

Danny shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. It's a difficult task, with his arms all tied up the way they are. "Let me tell you right now that you're wasting your time. McGarrett is a Navy SEAL and I'm divorced. We both have a pretty high pain tolerance."

And maybe that's a stupid thing to say, considering this seems to be one of those situations where their survival hinges heavily on their usefulness, but Danny doesn't realize that until after the fact. Luckily for him (or not), his captor is not impressed.

"Oh, don't worry. We did our homework on the two of you." He points upwards, and when Danny follows the path of his finger there's a tiny red light, blinking unerringly where it's stuck to the ceiling. He doesn't need to be a tech nerd to know that's a camera. "Your friend had to stand by and listen as his father was tortured and murdered. Are you sure he'll let the same thing happen to his partner?"

That's worse. Danny doesn't know how, but it is. So much worse. Steve's grip on his many issues is tenuous on the best of days, and this will not help.

It takes him a moment to work out how to speak around the lump in his throat. When he does, his voice comes out strangely wheezy.

"You, you've watched way too many gangster movies," he spits the words out, fast and strangled. The panic clawing at his ribs is making it hard to breathe. "You're _crazy_. That's never - it won’t work. You're gonna regret this."

"We'll see about that." Danny will see that smirk in his nightmares. "Any parting words for the Commander?"

Danny thinks about telling Steve to keep his damn mouth shut, but he knows he doesn't have to. Steve won't give these people anything except a quick, efficient death. And that's if they're lucky. 

"I'm good."

"Your funeral," says the guy and steps back. "He's all yours, Marco."

Danny forces himself to look up, to meet Marco's eyes. He's scared sick. Marco doesn't need to know that.

On the first punch, Danny cuts his bottom lip on his teeth.

The second almost knocks him over along with the chair.

He counts five blows before Marco steps back for the first time, Danny's blood smeared across his knuckles. "Where's Moore?"

Danny tries to work his jaw. It hurts, and so does talking, but he tries anyway. "He's-" He cuts himself off, swallows blood, tries again. "He's-"

"I can't hear you," Marco taunts. Danny groans, opens his mouth, closes it again, and Marco proves he's as dumb as he looks. He takes the bait, leans in. "Where is he?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," says Danny, and headbutts him, hard. Marco's nose yields with a sickening crunch and the sunglasses land between Danny's feet, broken.

Marco stumbles back, holding his face. There's blood leaking out from between his fingers; when he smirks down at Danny, his teeth are stained with it. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."

Danny's answering grin tastes like iron. "Guess so."

The next punch shatters at least two of his ribs.

It's gonna be a long night.

**~**

They spend a few hours in the jungle, huddled together beneath the twisting roots of a banyan tree, until Chin gets a call from HPD letting him know that the scene is clear, the attackers are gone, and so are Commander McGarrett and Detective Williams, sorry, no trace of them. Chin reminds himself that 'gone' means they're not among the bodies either, tells himself that's a good thing, thanks the officer and ends the call. The walk back to the safehouse is slow and quiet and by the time they get there the sun is rising, glinting through the lush trees in golden streaks. It warms Chin's skin where it's gone rough and sticky with blood that isn't his own. It belongs to the man he shot at point-blank range.

It's Lori who breaks the silence. "Do you know where to go now?"

They're approaching the rental truck now and Chin shakes his head and brings a finger to his lips. "They found us way too quickly."

Even with a man on the inside, it should have taken them more than half a day. Chin knows better than to blame that on bad luck. He slides on the pair of gloves he always carries on his person - working with Five-0, you can't be too prepared - and crouches down next to the truck. A bit of blind groping along the metal frame underneath the driver's side produces a black plastic case, barely larger than his palm. When he shows it to his companions, Kono grits her teeth. She looks murderous. Next to her, Lori's eyes widen.

"What's that?" Moore asks. He looks like he's about to keel over from exhaustion or maybe fear, but Chin figures he deserves the truth.

"A GPS tracker." He takes out the small device inside the case, removes the batteries and drops everything into the evidence bag Lori is holding out. With that done he unlocks the truck, gets into the driver's seat and pulls out his phone to shoot off a text while the others join him.

"There might be bugs, too," he warns. The rest of that sentence, that they shouldn't talk until they've switched vehicles, goes unsaid.

That opportunity comes as soon as they leave the jungle behind, because Malia got his text and she's waiting for them, leaning against her parked car right up until she sees Chin, at which point she rushes over to wrap him into a hug so tight he can hear his bones crack. Chin returns it, but after a few seconds he pulls away. This is not the time for heartfelt reunions.

Malia lets him go; not far, just far enough that she can look him over, both hands clutching his shoulders. "Are any of you injured?"

Chin shakes his head. By some miracle, they aren't. "We need to get back to HQ as quickly as possible."

Malia looks like she wants to ask - of course she wants to ask - but she's known Chin and his job long enough to know he can't tell her anything. "Let's go."

"Guess we'll be paying a visit to the rental company," Kono says, as soon as they're in the car. She's in the backseat, wedged in between Lori and Moore.

"That's where I'm going," Chin says. "I need you two to stay with him."

Kono's eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. She chews on her bottom lip, gripping her upper arms tightly. Chin can tell she wants to argue but can't quite figure out how to do that without coming off as insensitive. It's a nice thought, but Moore isn't listening. He's either asleep or passed out, it's hard to tell from where Chin is sitting.

"I want to help you find them, cuz," is what Kono settles on.

Chin shakes his head. "You can help me by staying with him."

"But-"

"This isn't over. You know it isn't. We have to find them, but we have to keep him safe too." He takes out the evidence bag and holds it out for her to take. "And I need you to check this for prints, too."

Next to him, Malia has gone tense, fingers white-knuckling the wheel, but she doesn't say a word. Chin wants to reassure her, tell her he'll be fine, that he's actually safer if he isn't around Moore, but she's already hearing far too much as it is.

Kono hesitates. "If you need backup-"

"I'll call."

"You better," she says, still looking less than happy, but she doesn't argue when Malia drops her, Lori and Moore off at HQ.

Chin kisses Malia goodbye, promises to be careful, and then gets out too, watching Kono and Moore vanish safely inside the building. Lori hangs back to walk him to his car.

She waits until he's sliding into the driver's seat to say: "They're alive."

Chin looks up, surprised she feels the need to reassure him. He thought he's been doing a good job hiding how worried he is.

"Gallo's priority is finding Moore. Steve and Danny can't tell him anything if they're dead. So until Moore turns up, Gallo needs them alive."

"It's enough if one of them talks," Chin says. "He doesn't need both of them alive."

Lori is silent for a long time. "No," she says eventually, quietly, and it occurs to Chin that she was trying to reassure herself as much as him. She hasn’t been with them that long, but she’s ohana too. "No, I suppose he doesn't."

Turns out Steve rented the car from a place near the airport which, considering those places attract tourists like flies to honey, means there's a good chance their pool of suspects won't exactly be shallow. Sure enough, when Chin gets there the place is crawling with people. He passes six families with bored-looking children of all ages, five newlywed couples (two of whom are already arguing) and a number of soon-to-be-wasted college kids before he finally makes it to the gleaming white desk in the front, where he slaps his badge down on the polished counter.

"Lieutenant Chin Ho Kelly, Five-0." He pushes the badge towards the rental agent, along with the rental papers he pulled from the bugged car. "Yesterday, you rented out this vehicle to my colleague. I need the name and address of everyone who came in contact with it before he picked it up."

The man looks at him like he couldn't be less impressed, then turns to his computer and starts typing slowly. "That's going to take a while."

If Steve were here, this would be the point where he drags the guy over the counter to deliver some horrific threat, something very effective and not entirely legal, but Chin isn't Steve. One of them has to be the voice of reason around here. It's not Kono, who is far too much like Steve already, and it's not Danny, even though he likes to act like he never strapped a witness to the hood of his car. And Lori, she’s new. Can’t put that kind of responsibility on her yet.

No, that burden falls on Chin. 

So instead of manhandling the guy into talking he flattens his hands on the counter and leans in, face carefully void of emotion. 

"Better get to work, then. Unless you want to add aiding and abetting a kidnapping to your CV," he glances at the guy's name tag, " _Martin_."

Ten minutes later Chin's leaving the building with a list of twenty names.

He calls Kono, who answers on the first ring. " _Did you get it_?"

"Emailing it to you now." Chin takes a picture of the list and does just that. "Did you get a match on the prints?"

" _No_ ," Kono says. " _But I got something else. The tracker you found? Fong was able to trace the serial number back to the store that sold it._ "

A slow grin spreads across Chin's lips. "Give me the address."

"Yeah, we sold one just like that yesterday," says the clerk, after Chin shows him a picture of the tracker. "Afraid I can't help you, though. She paid in cash, and I didn't ask for her name."

Chin's heart sinks. There was no woman on the list they got from the rental location. Sounds like that lead just went up in smoke.

"Could you describe her?"

"Oh yeah. Blonde, fancy outfit - she was really cute." He waggles his eyebrows at Chin. "I mean, if you like tattooed chicks."

In the back of Chin's mind, something clicks into place. "Tattooed?"

"Yeah. She had one right here." He gestures at his collarbone. "Birds."

**~**

"Danny."

Blood drips down his face, slow and sticky. It clings to his temple, his cheek, soaks into the fabric of his shirt where it stretches across his stiff shoulders. His brain is pulsing painfully in time with his heartbeat, threatening to squeeze out of his ears. The last time he felt this bad was the morning he swore off tequila for good.

" _Danny_."

Steve.

"Danny - buddy, you gotta wake up. Come on, man."

Clammy fingers skim across his cheekbone, carefully wiping at the blood, but it's the urgency in Steve's voice that gets to him. That’s not normal. Danny’s never heard him sound like that. Steve has street-raced terrorists up winding dirt paths in the mountains without batting an eye; if Steve sounds worried, something has to be seriously wrong.

'What the hell did you do this time?' Danny wants to ask. It comes out sounding like the last sound the Marquis made before it died on them.

"Danny?"

There's a bright spark of pain when Danny tries to move his head towards the source of the voice. There's blood in his lashes, blurring his vision until he blinks it away. At first, he has no idea where he is. He can’t make sense of his surroundings. It's not his motel room, he knows that. That place is a shithole, but it's a shithole with windows and painted walls. Here, there's nothing but bare concrete and bricks and rusty pipes. 

And Steve. There’s Steve, too. Steve, who's standing in front of him, pale and covered in blood.

The sight jumpstarts Danny's memory. He lets his head fall forward with a groan.

"Fuck." His voice is rough and slurred and it seems to startle Steve, which is scarier than the headache or the fact that his chest feels like it's filled with tiny glass shards. Danny grits his teeth and tries to organize his scrambled thoughts. His ribs hurt like hell, but it’s his brain that’s really giving him trouble. "Fuck," he says again, tries to enunciate the word more clearly. "Can't believe this is how I'm spending my Sunday."

There's a sharp sound; judging by the strained smile on Steve's face, it was probably meant to be a laugh. It's a poor attempt but Danny takes it, because the line of Steve's jaw has softened slightly and the strange freaked-out look in his eyes has been replaced by that crazy sparkle Danny has come to know so well. Steve looks furious. Danny can see explosives in his near future.

For once, he doesn't resent it. 

He's not telling Steve that, though.

"It's alright," Steve says and ducks out of Danny's line of vision, vanishing behind the chair. The ropes around Danny's upper arms tighten momentarily before they fall away. The cuffs are next to go. "Sunday’s not over yet. We're getting out of here."

Danny twists his head around as much as he can to try and keep an eye on him. That turns out to be a bad idea when the room starts spinning. He drags a breath into his aching lungs and manages not to break his no-puking streak. "You okay?"

"Blood’s not mine," Steve says, which doesn’t really answer Danny’s question. "You?"

A drop of blood is making its way down Danny's lid and he tilts his head to the side so it won't get into his eye again. It trickles across his temple and into his hair, which is probably a mess.

"Oh, yeah," he replies, as dryly as he can. "Yeah, I mean, I'm just peachy. Can you believe I've lasted this long without getting kidnapped on the job? Now I can finally cross that off my bucket list."

Steve laughs again. It's more convincing this time. He’s back now, kneeling in front of Danny to work on the restraints around his ankles. "It's important to have goals in life."

Danny bends down to help, fingers slow and clumsy and probably more of a hindrance than a help. Steve doesn't bat him away.

"I had a plan." He jerks a shaky thumb at the glasses, lying broken between his feet. He still thinks he could have gotten out of the cuffs with those. He couldn’t figure out how to pick them up, that’s all.

"I saw," Steve says, not looking up from the knot that’s currently giving him trouble. "Smart move."

"How did you get out, anyway?"

Danny's right leg gets free and Steve knee-walks to the other side of the chair. "Used my shoelaces."

"You what?"

"They used zip ties on me."

It might just be the concussion he's pretty sure he has, but Danny is still lost. "You... What?"

"Zip ties," Steve repeats. He removes the rope and gets up. "You can break them with friction. That's why I have paracord laces in all of my boots."

"You… you’re saying, what you’re telling me right now, is that you used your shoelaces. To saw through the zip ties."

Steve nods and pulls Danny to his feet, snakes a hand around Danny’s biceps to steady him. His grip is tight and warm and Danny sways dangerously, curving towards Steve like Steve’s chest is a magnet, pulling him in. 

Steve adjusts his grip, keeping Danny upright. "And to strangle the guy they left behind to watch me."

"Wow," Danny says. "I think I might be falling in love with you."

Steve snorts. "Come on. Time to get going."

Danny grabs his wrist, squeezes it as tightly as he can. He feels the bones shift under his fingers, but Steve doesn't even blink. Sitting in that chair was bad, standing up is worse. Walking is out of the question. The room is spiraling around him and he's pretty sure he's two fast steps away from throwing up all over Steve's lifesaving shoelaces. 

"No, seriously." If he keeps talking, maybe Steve won't question why Danny hasn't moved yet. "Seriously. I mean it. Next time I make fun of your McGuyver bullshit, smack me."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"That doesn't mean I'm on board with the grenades. Or the - the shark cages." It needs to be said. Danny isn't just rambling to buy himself time. "Shoelaces are fine, though. Maybe I'll get a pair. This is why flip-flops are useless, by the way. You can't get out of zip ties if you're wearing flip-flops."

"Danny." There's a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Danny opens his eyes. He didn't even realize he closed them. "We have to get out of here. You took quite the beating."

Rolling his eyes hurts, but Steve's earned it. "You don't say. I was there, you know. I remember."

"Then stop stalling and let me get you to a hospital." Steve rotates his wrist in Danny's grip and then Danny's arm is suddenly wrapped around Steve's shoulders. Danny couldn’t tell you how it got there. Damned ninja skills. "Come on. Try not to pass out on me."

Just for that, Danny thumps his chest with his fist. "I hate you."

"You just said you were falling in love with me."

"Story of my life," Danny says, and then he shuts up, because Steve's already dragging him out of the room and Danny really needs to focus on staying conscious.

**~**

Back in the car, Chin calls Kono. It's just a formality, a way to confirm what he already knows, because this right here is one of those moments he loves best about the job, when all the pieces fall together and match perfectly.

" _Yeah_ ," Kono says, " _she's been assigned to the case since the beginning. She worked with all of the other witnesses. Why_?"

Less than an hour later, the deputy prosecutor is sitting in their interrogation room, looking a lot less dazzling than she did yesterday. The cold blue light deepens every line on her face, makes her look older, harsh. Her lips are pressed together in two thin lines, like she's already decided to make this as difficult as she possibly can.

Next to Chin, Kono crosses her arms across her chest, jaw clenched in a way that reminds Chin eerily of Steve. He can definitely see it now, what Danny means when he says she's been spending too much time with him. Chin just hopes she won't start carrying grenades. If she does, it'll be Chin who has to answer to her mother.

"So, I'm curious," Kono says conversationally, like they're talking about the weather. "Why did you do it? Money? Adrenaline? I get it, your job is boring, but most people just find some dangerous hobby to take the edge off. You know, skydiving. Bungee jumping. They don't sell people out to the mob."

Berger doesn't so much as blink. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Let me help you." Chin holds up a picture of the tracker and waves it in front of her face. "We found this stuck to our rental car, and we have a witness who can confirm you're the one who bought it. I bet if we compare your fingerprints to the ones on here, we'll get a match."

"Wear gloves next time," Kono offers helpfully.

"I'm not saying another word without a lawyer."

"There are two lives at stake here," Chin snaps. They really don't have time for this. "Detective Williams has a nine-year-old daughter. Are you going to take that little girl's father away from her?"

Berger sets her jaw and says nothing, and Chin should have known she wouldn't. Before Moore, there were four other witnesses. Four pointless deaths, four grieving families, four lives Berger sacrificed for her own gain. Why would she give a damn about Grace?

In the end, it's Kono who saves the day.

"You're afraid Gallo will have you killed too if you talk." She steps forward until Berger has to crane her neck to meet her eyes. "Well, I'll give you a choice. You can tell us where we can find our team members and spend the rest of your days in a cushy, _safe_ prison cell. Or we can let you leave right now and you can walk away alone while we tell everyone who wants to listen how amazingly cooperative you've been. We’ll just have to hope whoever Gallo sends after his loose ends is chattier than you."

**~**

Steve hauls him through the building like he knows where he's going, opening doors and rounding corners without hesitation. Hell, maybe he does know. Maybe he mapped out the floor while he was looking for Danny, maybe it's some kind of SuperSEAL sixth sense. Danny doesn't care, as long as they find the exit. Quickly.

He should probably be a lot more scared than he is. He's in pain and he's nauseous and exhausted but every time he starts to feel afraid he becomes aware of Steve's solid frame, glued against his side. It's the opposite of comfortable, because every single step Steve coaxes out of him jostles something inside Danny's body that probably shouldn't be loose, but damn if it isn't comforting. 

There's a word he never thought he'd apply to Steve McGarrett. He trusts Steve with his life and in the field there's no one he'd rather have in his corner, but Steve is a crazy idiot and he always finds an opportunity to prove it. Danny is usually too busy getting premature gray hairs to be comforted by his presence.

He shouldn't be comforted right now, either. Everything about their situation is alarming. So maybe it's not Steve's presence. Maybe the fear receptors in his brain are just damaged. That's possible too.

"What are we gonna do when we get out?" He asks, while Steve is pulling them down a dark, empty hallway. This whole place is deserted. They haven't run into anyone yet. Danny would call it a miracle, but Steve is covered in a lot of blood. Those two things may be related. "Do you know where we are?"

"I will once we get outside."

"And then? We could be god knows where." Steve's got one of Danny's wrists locked down to keep Danny's arm around his shoulder, but Danny waves his free hand in a big circle to indicate just how far from civilization he thinks they probably are. "Are we walking back to Honolulu? Are you gonna carry me? Because that's not happening, Superman. I wanna be clear with you on that."

Steve gives him an odd look. There's a bruise forming on his cheek. "I'm sure these people have cars."

Danny didn't even think about that. His mind feels slow, sluggish. He wants to lie down and sleep for a decade. "That they're just gonna let you take?"

"I know how to hotwire a car, Danno."

Of course he does. "I know _that_. I meant... what I'm trying to say is, there will be guards. With guns, and-"

The rest of his sentence gets lost in a pained groan when Steve smashes him against the wall so hard every bone in Danny's body rattles. Including the broken bits, of which there seem to be a lot. A bullet whizzes past them and before Danny can process that, Steve puts a hole between the shooter's eyes.

"Right." Danny blinks. Steve's still standing too close. He smells like iron and sweat. "Right. You have a gun. Of course you have a gun. _Fuck_ , that hurt."

"Sorry." For once, Steve sounds like he means it. He peels Danny off the wall and doesn't so much as glance at the man he just dropped when they step over him.

After that, Danny stays quiet. Not by choice, it's just hard to talk when every nerve in your body is screaming.

And then there it is. The exit. It's a double door, rusted beyond repair right down to the squeaky push bar, but Danny thinks he hasn't seen anything so beautiful since the day his baby girl was born. His head rolls onto Steve's shoulder when Steve shifts his weight to open it and then he's tugged outside into a blindingly beautiful day - and next to him, Steve goes rigid.

"Boss?"

Danny has to look up because that's Kono's voice, which makes negative sense, but there she is, Kono, and Chin and Lori right beside her, with tac vests and thigh holsters and heavy guns, raised like they were about to storm the building. Nobody moves until Danny clears his throat.

"What's with the deer in headlights look, huh? If you're not gonna shoot us, let's get the hell out of here."


	3. Chapter 3

It's not that Danny doesn't expect Steve to stick around. Between his notorious control issues and the fact that he hasn't been cleared to head back to the office yet because he keeps dodging anyone who tries to examine the taser burns on his neck, Danny wouldn't have been surprised by hourly checkups. But Steve's taking it much further than that. The way he's hovering, he would give the overzealous PTA moms at Gracie's fancy private school a run for their money. All he's missing are the designer heels.

The doctors are halfway through cutting up Danny's shirt to reveal the mess that is his ribcage when Danny realizes Steve isn't going anywhere. He's not exactly upset about that, because staring Steve down helps him block out the _snip-snip-snip_ of the surgical scissors, but he figures he should at least pretend to put up a fight.

"Seriously?" He waits to see if Steve will look up, but Steve just keeps staring at the mosaic of bruises on Danny's chest. "You're just, you're seriously just gonna stand there and watch."

"Yes," says Steve. He's looming from the doorframe like a bloodstained gargoyle.

"Privacy isn't in your vocabulary, huh? They didn't teach you about that at SEAL school?"

"No."

"Okay, Mr. Monosyllabic," says Danny, done pretending, and lets him be. 

It's annoying, sure, but no more than Steve's usual bullshit, and something inside of Danny resists when he thinks about making Steve leave. He can't do that, not when Steve looks so broken, not when he keeps watching but doesn't look Danny in the eye once. It's not hard to guess what's up. Danny knows Steve feels guilty, just like he knows Steve won't want to talk about it.

He can’t do anything about that, but he can allow Steve to hover. So that’s what he does.

It's only when Steve tries to muscle his way into the CT Scan room that Danny decides he's had enough. He flags down one of the nurses and points at Steve, who's currently wrapped up in an intense discussion with a pack of irritated-looking people in scrubs.

"Excuse me, ma'am - hello. How are you? Listen, my buddy Steve, that's him right there, the guy who looks like he's about to assault your staff, _Steven_ ." Steve doesn't wipe the murderous look off his face but he takes a step back, which is a win in Danny's books. Danny turns back to the nurse, smiles at her sufferingly and spreads his arms wide, _see what I have to deal with_. "Sorry about that. He gets agitated when he's injured - that's why I need your help, actually. He was tasered, see, right here. Could you maybe take a look at it? Please? Don’t mind him if he tries to tell you it's fine, he's just terrible at asking for help."

With that, Steve's fate is sealed. The nurse ushers him away and he surrenders, but not without flashig Danny his patented McGarrett Murder Face, homicidal glower and all. To Danny, who has never been afraid of Steve for even a second, it’s kind of hilarious. He carefully thinks of nothing else while he's lying in the CT tube, and in combination with the meds he's on, it’s enough to keep the claustrophobic panic at bay.

An eternity later, when all the tests are run and all of his wounds are patched up, Danny finally finds himself in a blissfully quiet hospital room, freshly diagnosed with five fractured ribs (plus several bruised ones), a multitude of bad contusions and one severe concussion. 

He can’t remember the last time he was this tired.

The bed isn't that comfortable and the paper gown they gave him doesn't provide any coverage in the areas where it matters the most, but Danny could sleep just about anywhere right now. He tugs at the gown until his bare ass isn't touching the mattress anymore, pulls the too-thin hospital blanket up to his ears, and bids the world goodnight.

The door opens with a bang. "Danno."

Danny starts so hard he almost rips out his IV line. Steve either doesn't notice or opts to ignore it, unperturbed as he strides over and grabs the clipboard that's hooked over the footboard of Danny's bed. There's a crisp white patch of gauze stuck to his neck, and a few smaller cuts on his face are held together by butterfly bandaids. The shadows under his eyes have dark circles of their own and he's still covered in a dead man's blood.

"I haven't slept in 36 hours, Steven."

Steve starts flipping through Danny's record, because apparently he needs to know everything. "Yeah, I know." It sounds so casual Danny would think he's back to normal, except he's still avoiding eye contact.

"Oh, you know? That's good." Danny waits a beat. Steve doesn't react. "Then it won't surprise you that I want to get some shut-eye. _Please_?"

Steve keeps thumbing through the pages, back and forth, like he's double-checking something. Maybe he just needs to keep his hands busy. "What's stopping you?"

"You're just gonna stay here while I sleep?"

"Chin, Kono and Lori took Moore to a classified location. I can't go there in case I'm being followed."

And while that explains Steve's restlessness - Mr. Hotshot Quarterback doesn't respond well to being benched, big surprise - it doesn't answer Danny's question. "That doesn't mean you have to be here."

At that, Steve finally looks up. "Where else would I be?"

"At home?" Danny suggests. "In your bed?"

Steve raises the clipboard and shakes it. "This says they want to keep you here for observation. For at least 48 hours."

"Pretty sure it also says 'Patient name: Daniel Williams'," Danny points out. "So that doesn't explain why _you're_ here."

"Right." Steve nods and puts the clipboard back where it belongs. "You heard me when I said it's possible we're still being followed by Gallo's men? Because that's what I said, ten seconds ago. Are your ears broken too? You want it in writing?"

They've clearly hit the paranoia stage of Steve's breakdown, then. That's fine. Danny kind of gets it. Steve had to watch them - well. He had to watch. Danny would be feeling overprotective too if it had been Steve in that room.

He watches as Steve arranges his long limbs to fit into one of the hospital chairs lining the far wall. It looks horrifically uncomfortable. 

"Fine," Danny sighs. "I guess it's your back you're ruining."

Because of the damn concussion Danny has to wake up every two hours, and every time he does, Steve's there, perched in his chair. Watching. Waiting. It should be creepy, but Steve never does what he’s supposed to do, and this is no exception. It's not creepy. It’s nice. It's reassuring. 

Danny will take that particular piece of information to his grave. He doesn’t want to give Steve any ideas.

By the time the doctor's morning round takes him to Danny's room, nobody even questions Steve's presence anymore. Clearly visiting hours don't apply to the head of Five-0. Danny wonders if he had to pull rank or if his glare was enough. He waits until the doctor leaves, then looks at Steve expectantly.

"Got all that? You take notes?"

Steve's still in his chair, curled up like a pretzel. He's been reading something on his phone, but at Danny's question he looks up. "What?"

"I figured since you're so intent on watching me 24/7, you must be thinking about becoming a part time nurse or something."

He doesn't know what kind of reaction he expects. A laugh, maybe, or at least a smile, but Steve just scratches the bandage on his neck and contemplates that for a minute. 

"Somebody's gotta do it."

"Do what?" Danny asks, but then gets distracted by the way Steve's still fiddling with the bandage. Any minute now he's gonna pull it off. "Okay - hey. Stop that. You need one of those pet cones? Mr. Hoppy got a pink one when he was neutered, I can get it for you."

The hand drops. Still no smile. "Speaking of which. Do you want me to call Grace?"

"Do I want you to - what?" Danny goes quiet, is actually rendered speechless, while he tries to think of a way to tell Steve just how much he _doesn't_ want Steve to call Grace. In the end, he just settles on a simple: " _No_. No, Jesus. Absolutely not. No way in hell. I don't want her to know about this. Are you insane?"

The rant barely gets a blink out of Steve. "What about Rachel?"

"I thought _I_ was the one with brain damage."

Steve nods but he starts fumbling with the gauze again, and there's a weird look on his face now, pinched and kind of sheepish, and, Christ. Danny knows what that look means.

"You already called her," he says slowly, like the answer is going to change if he doesn't actually ask the question. "Tell me you didn't."

At least Steve has the decency to look kind of guilty. "I had to tell her you lost your phone. She asked me how you lost it, so I told her. What was I supposed to do?"

Sometimes, Danny still hates him. He throws his hands up and gets tangled in his IV line again; the stand wobbles dangerously when he rips his arm free. " _Lie_ , Steven," he barks. "You were supposed to lie! What the hell is the matter with you? Tell her it was stolen! Tell her I dropped it and a car ran over it - hell, tell her I robbed a bank and I can't answer the phone right now because it’s in evidence and I'm a fugitive. All of that is better than telling my ex-wife I'm in hospital."

"Think you're maybe being overdramatic?" Steve asks, proving he was never married, and he definitely never got-back-together-with-then-dumped-by his ex-wife because she is pregnant with another man's child.

Danny scrubs his hands across his face. They've got him on some great painkillers but he can still feel the headache coming on. "Just tell me you told her not to come."

Steve scratches a patch of stubble on his chin and says nothing, but before Danny can start to yell at him - and god, does he want to yell at him - the door bursts open and whatever Danny was about to say gets stuck in his throat.

"Monkey? Hey, what are you doing here?"

Grace takes one look at him, at the black eye and the split lip and the bruised jaw and the stitches running down his forehead, and starts bawling. 

Danny immediately reaches for her.

"Grace - hey. Baby, come here. Come here, yeah? It's fine." Grace doesn't stop crying, but she allows him to fold her into his arms, where she starts hiccuping sobs into his shoulder. Danny's ribs are less than happy with the arrangement but he wouldn't let go of her right now if someone told him to at gunpoint. "It's okay. It's okay, Monkey, I'm okay."

In his peripheral vision, he sees Steve getting up so Rachel can sit down. He's out of the room before Danny can say anything.

Eventually, Grace falls asleep. Danny's hospital gown is sticking to his shoulder, soaked with tears, and he shifts Grace down onto his chest so she won't have to lie in the wet spot. 

Over by the window, Rachel is watching him with an expression Danny knows far too well. It's not the first time he got hurt on the job. He’s been on the receiving end of that expression more times than he can count. Years ago, in a different life, it was this look that heralded the end of his marriage.

It doesn't hurt as much now as it did then. He's angrier now than he was then. 

"Why did you bring her here?"

"She overheard me talking to Steve on the phone." Rachel’s fingers are stark white against the black leather of the purse in her lap. "I asked him how bad it was and she knew I was talking about you. She wouldn't take no for an answer."

"She's nine years old, Rachel," Danny snarls. He's transported back to a house that stopped feeling like home, to bitter fights had entirely in vicious whispers because Gracie was sleeping upstairs. "It's not like she can just get in the car and drive here by herself."

"She was _worried_ , Daniel."

"And now, what, now she's not? Now she's happy?"

"Now she's seen it for herself," Rachel hisses. "That makes it easier."

It's 95 degrees out there, but the expression on her face chills Danny to the bone. He knows that one too, the one that says she's speaking from experience. She looks angry and exhausted and she's starting to show. Danny stares at the small bump and expects to feel sick with jealousy. He doesn’t. He just feels tired.

"How's Stan?"

"He's in LA. On business." At Danny's raised eyebrow, she adds: "He's fine. We're fine."

"Good," says Danny, insincerely, and allows them to slip into a tense silence.

They're here all day, mostly because Grace clings to Danny like she's trying to live up to her nickname. Chin, Kono and Lori stop by over the course of the afternoon, but Steve doesn't show his face once. Typical. He won't leave Danny alone with the doctors, but his ex-wife? Danny's fair game, where she's concerned.

He only sticks his head in after Rachel and Grace have left. It's late by then and Steve has discarded all of his bandages, because he's a dumbass who refuses to comply with medical advice, and exchanged the bloody clothes for a clean t-shirt-and-cargo-pants combo. He's freshly showered, too, and he shaved, so he must have gone home to change at some point.

"Were you at the courthouse?"

Steve nods. "Moore made his statement. There's no verdict yet, but - I mean, there's really only one way this can end."

Danny already heard about it from the others - he doesn't want to know what it says about his life that the corrupt attorney flirted with _him_ \- but Steve looks like he needs to be the bearer of some good news right about now, so Danny lets him tell the story again.

"That's good," he says after.

"Yeah." Steve comes to a stop by the foot of Danny's bed. Despite the fresh clothes he doesn't look great, pale and washed out in the cool white lighting of the hospital room. Behind him the window is dark, dotted with bright city lights. "Listen, Danny, I'm sorry about Grace. I didn't think Rachel would bring her."

Danny waves him off. "That's Rachel's fault. Not yours."

Steve says nothing, just picks up the clipboard again. The silence between them is uncomfortable in a way it has never been before, and Danny has no idea how to fix it.

"Did you sleep at all? You look like shit." It's not an exaggeration. Steve's got dark bags the size of suitcases. If Danny didn't know better he'd say Steve's getting sick, except he doesn't think Steve can get sick. He probably repels viruses on sight, if his immune system is as stubborn as the rest of him. "I mean, I know I don't look much better, but I'm wearing paper PJs and my ass is hanging out. What's your excuse?"

"I slept," Steve replies, narrowing his eyes at Danny's medical record like it's personally offended him.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes, _mom_."

"Hey, screw you. I'm not taking the blame for your lack of bedside manner."

That earns Danny a snort at least, but the smile doesn't stick.

"Oh, by the way." Steve flips the page and keeps squinting at the paper. "You're staying at my place."

"See, I would say thank you for the invitation, but something tells me that was an order, not an offer."

"Observant as always," Steve says. "Good to know they didn't knock that out of you. I'd have to look for a new partner."

Something about the way he says it sinks into Danny like a knife, twists something deep inside his chest and breaks it. He sits up and pulls the clipboard out of Steve's hands, snaps it back into its holder. The resulting _click_ rings loudly through the quiet room.

"Listen, Steve, if you're doing this because-"

"I'm doing this because that motel is a shithole," Steve interrupts him, folding his arms across his chest like a barrier, because he's an emotionally constipated dumbass who can sense uncomfortable conversations from a mile away. "And because it's a _motel_."

Danny rolls his eyes. "It's really not that bad. It's got four walls, a bed and warm water, which I'm pretty sure is more than can be said for most of the places you squatted in during your tours, so-"

"It's _shitty_ , and you can't sleep there until your ribs heal." Steve drums his index finger against his biceps, five quick taps, coincidentally the same number as Danny's broken ribs. "End of story."

The thing about working with Steve is you learn to pick your battles, and to know when to give up. With Steve, most battles are losing battles. And Danny isn't all that interested in winning this one, anyway. Steve's right. His motel is a shithole. 

"I would argue," he says, "but you have my car keys. So really, who am I kidding?"

Steve steals the clipboard again and drops into the chair by the window. "Glad we agree."

This is obviously not the first time Danny's slept at Steve's place. Even before their disastrous and short-lived attempt at living together, he stayed over a couple of times. They work late a lot and while Steve isn't opposed to taking work home, he's too much of a control freak to let Danny bring classified files to the motel, or even back to his apartment before it got torn down. 

Steve of course claims it's not because he's got control issues, it's just that the security system sucks; Danny tried telling him that of the two of them, Steve's the only one who had people break into his house and steal important shit, but Steve just stared at him, blank-faced, and didn't surrender Danny's files until Danny agreed to go home with him. So this is far from the first time he's ever slept here, but it is the first time he accepts Steve's offer to set him up in one of the bedrooms as opposed to the living room couch. 

Offer being a pretty generous word, because it implies Danny was given a choice, which is definitely not how things went down. Steve took one look at the couch, turned to Danny, put his finger way too close to Danny's face and said, "If you think I'm letting you sleep there your brain is more messed up than I thought." 

And that was that.

Now, lying in Mary's old bed, propped up against four different pillows to take some of the strain off of his ribs, Danny's almost grateful for Steve's stubbornness. Because this is way better than the couch. He doesn't even hate the sound of the ocean anymore. He's warm, he's got enough painkillers in his system to knock out a very big horse, and he doesn't have to show up for work tomorrow. Neither does Steve, who can use the sleep even more than Danny, probably. 

Five-0 is taking a day off and the way Danny sees it, not a single person in this house is getting up before 10 AM. He’s sure of it.

He’s wrong. And it’s not even Steve’s fault.

It’s the birds that are to blame, and by extension Danny, because he left the window open last night and didn’t even notice. Those painkillers are something else.

So instead of sleeping until 10 AM, Danny wakes up at 5:42. He gets up to shut out the noise and there’s Steve, wading into the water like it's a normal thing to do at this time of day. The sky is a deep wash of blue, barely blurring into orange at the edges, and Steve looks like an apparition in the early-dawn darkness, starlight chasing shadows across his skin. Every step he takes sends ripples across the soft waves, shattering the moon's reflection.

It's not news to Danny that Steve likes to get up at the asscrack of dawn, not exactly, but he figured that was just because they have to be at the office at 9 and Steve needs the extra time to complete his workout routine from hell. Shame on Danny for giving him the benefit of the doubt because there he is, wearing board shorts before 6 o'clock on his day off.

When the water reaches his waistline Steve raises both arms, muscles flexing as he prepares himself for the plunge, and Danny realizes he hasn't closed the window yet.

"Hey, Ariel!" He braces his hands on the window sill and leans forward, grinning around a rush of childish delight when he makes Steve jump. "Don't get eaten! I hear sharks are most active at dawn."

Steve drops his arms and turns around. He's too far away to make out his expression, but Danny can hear the smirk in his voice when he calls back: "Wanna come in? The water's great!"

"Do I wanna - yeah, sure, I absolutely want to be in the ocean before sunrise, that’s exactly what I want to be doing on my day off. That’s not crazy at all." He knows it's not a genuine offer. There's no way Steve would let him swim with broken ribs. "About as much as I wanna shoot myself in the foot - actually, you know what? If given the choice, I think I’d take the bullet."

Steve's got his hands out by his sides, held just above the water. The waves are lapping against his fingers. "I'll protect you from the sharks."

"You," Danny points, just to make it absolutely clear who he's referring to, because Steve needs to know this, "are _completely_ insane. Certifiable. A shrink’s wet dream, is what you are. Have fun."

Steve salutes him and then he's off, turning around and diving into the water like some weirdly shaped fish returning home. The surface surges, then smooths over, and Danny is left searching the waves until Steve breaks through a stupid distance away. He's gotta be hiding gills somewhere. 

Danny watches him for a while, just to make sure there aren't any sharks. Just so he can be there to say _I told you so_ , if Steve does get eaten. When he does finally head back to bed, the sky is aglow in vivid shades of purple and pink.

The rest of the morning is just as alarmingly healthy, and this time it is Steve's fault.

Turns out Steve’s the kind of person who owns shit like whole wheat flour and almond milk, but no bacon. Danny knew about the sorry state of his refrigerator, to an extent, because he has cooked in this kitchen (eggs, not that Steve appreciated them) but he didn't know it was always this bad.

"Why?" He thrusts the carton of almond milk in Steve's face. "What in god's name is this - and where's the bacon?"

"Almond milk is good for you, it has lots of vitamin E-" Danny cuts him off with an impatient flap of his hand, because that was the least important part of his question, thank you very much. Steve rolls his eyes, but adds: "And I don’t really eat bacon." 

"Who _are_ you."

"Jesus, Daniel, I'm sorry for keeping an eye on my cholesterol."

"Right. Right, you know what's more dangerous than cholesterol? Huh?" Danny puts the almond milk back in the fridge so he can count the examples on his fingers, because there are a lot of them: "Fire fights. Car chases. Explosives. Talking shit to powerful people who want you dead, breaking out of a prison ambulance after you've been stabbed in the gut - all of your favorite hobbies, basically."

"Maybe." Steve starts measuring out whole wheat flour for god knows what the hell he's making. Danny decides not to ask and grabs some eggs from the fridge. At least there’s always eggs, even if Steve probably eats them raw. "But those things won't give you a coronary."

"See, that's where you're wrong," Danny tells him, and points at him with the pan he’s just pulled from Steve’s cupboard. "Maybe they won't give _you_ a heart attack, but us civilized people, we're different."

"Are you calling me uncivilized?"

"You're an animal."

"That's rich," says Steve, and, honest to god, starts sifting the flour. "Coming from the guy who always overcooks his eggs."

And that's how Danny learns a very important lesson; how Steve deals with really fucked up situations. Like watching his partner get tortured. The answer? He doesn't. 

As strained and awkward as things were between them at the hospital, now that they're back on Steve's turf, Steve has apparently decided he's over it. It's not just that they've reverted to their usual back-and-forth, although that’s the most noticeable improvement. But he's meeting Danny's eyes again too. He doesn't turn away every time Danny moves wrong and flinches in pain. He's smiling again.

Danny feels like a sap when he realizes how much he missed that.

Thing is, he knows it's bad. Bottling shit like this up, it's never a permanent solution. Sooner or later, it's gonna blow up in their faces and given Steve’s penchant for destruction, they might be talking about actual explosions. Danny really shouldn't be letting this slide.

But Danny doesn't want to talk about it either. Danny wants to bury it deep in the darkest corner of his mind and keep it there until he's forced to deal with it, so when he looks at Steve and Steve looks happy, he decides they might as well ignore it.

With Steve's track record, what's one more explosion?

They have breakfast on the lanai, looking out over the ocean. The grass is wet from a burst of morning rain but the sky is already back to blue, cut in half by a vibrant band of color, and Danny marvels at the state of his life. This isn't what he thought life in Hawaii would be like. He expected sunburns, too much work and too little time with Grace; and sure, there's a lot of that. But there's also a lot of this. Breakfast by the sea and rainbows and colleagues who have become family.

He doesn't know if Steve can sense Danny's getting sentimental and decides to save him from himself, or if he's just got really good timing; either way, Danny's grateful for the distraction when Steve says: "So. You were up early."

Danny looks over and catches a glimpse of Steve's grin before Steve hides it in his orange juice.

"Don't even start." He shakes his fork at Steve; the piece of egg impaled on it wobbles dangerously. "It was not a voluntary decision. 5 AM is not an acceptable time to get up. I was dragged out of bed by birds, and if you ever wanted to know why I live in the city, there's your answer. There are no birds in the city."

Steve snorts. "Not in your neighborhood, that's for sure."

"Uh huh. Okay. You know what? If you're so unhappy with my living arrangements, how about you pay me more?"

"I don't pay you anything," Steve says, and starts shoveling whole wheat pancakes into his mouth. "Take it up with the Governor."

Danny swallows his eggs and points at Steve with the now empty fork. "You should handle it for me. You're my boss."

"Like that means anything to you."

"Well, you're also a goof, so you know."

"I could fire you for that."

"Good luck finding someone else who's dumb enough to put up with your bullshit," Danny says, and then, to illustrate his point, moves his finger in a circle above Steve's stack of disgustingly healthy pancakes.

Steve responds to that by cutting one of them in half and sliding it onto Danny's plate.

"Don't knock it till you try it."

Danny knows he's been spending too much time with Steve when he doesn't even consider backing down from this challenge. He cuts off a piece with his fork and tastes it, fully prepared to hate it, and is very disappointed to find that it actually tastes good. He thinks about denying it, but then he just rolls his eyes at Steve's smirk and kicks him under the table.

"Shut up."

Steve laughs, and faces the ocean.

By some miracle, they actually get two peaceful weeks before the Governor calls Steve with a new case. They're in the kitchen when it happens, cooking lunch - well, Danny's cooking lunch, while Steve micromanages the process from where he's leaning against the kitchen counter.

"I'm just saying." He inches closer to peer into the pan. "I don't get why you're deep-frying it. Just grill it. It's easier, and it's better for you."

He's wearing red board shorts and a sleeveless Navy shirt and flip-flops and Danny wants to whack him with the spatula. He restrains himself, but it's a damn close call.

"Because that's not how you make parmigiana. This is my mother's recipe, Steven. If you want me to do it your way, sure. But first you have to call her and explain to her why you think she's wrong, alright? You're gonna call her, right now, right here so I can listen, and you're gonna tell her why her tried and tested method of deep-frying eggplant is wrong. If you survive that conversation, I swear to you, I'll grill them. Just for you."

"I would love to talk to your mother, Danno," Steve grins.

Danny does whack him. Not with the spatula, but with the kitchen towel he's slung over his shoulder.

"Why don't you go do a hundred pushups or something, huh? Get out of my hair."

"Because I already did that this morning. While you were asleep."

"I sure love being the only sane person in this household."

"Hey. Gordon Ramsay." Steve points at the pan. "Those look done to me, they look done to you?"

Danny hip-checks him to get him to back off. "Get your fingers out of my food, McGarrett."

Steve opens his mouth but Danny never finds out what he was about to say to that, because he's cut off when his phone rings. He leaves Danny alone to get it from the kitchen table and Danny spitefully drops another eggplant slice into the hot oil.

It's not a long call but by the end of it, Steve's shoulders are straighter and he's got that gleam in his eyes, the one that says he can already smell his next adrenaline rush.

Danny sighs. "New case." It's not a question.

"Yeah. The Governor wants to talk to me."

"Alright. Pick me up after the meeting?" Steve's doubtful look is met with a roll of eyes and Danny points at him with the spatula. "If you tell me to take it easy I will kick your ass. Here. In your very own kitchen. You went back to work the same day when you broke your arm. And you had no problem dragging me along when I tore my ACL. And if you think for one second that I'm gonna let you drive away in my car, without me-"

"Alright, alright," Steve interjects, just as Danny finishes his rant with a heartfelt,

"You're _crazy_ and I'm signing you up for a head scan _today_."

"Alright!" Steve looks pissed, but he's just gonna have to deal with that, because Danny isn't giving in. "Fine. You finish up here, I'll pick you up later."

Danny ends up chasing a drug dealer halfway across the International Marketplace. Steve does the tackling, bless him, but it's still not easy on Danny's ribs and when the day is finally over, his body feels like one gigantic bruise. They get home way too late, tired and soaked to the bone thanks to the summer storm raging outside, and Steve steers him to the couch, sits him down and just looks at him.

Danny puts his hand in Steve's face before he can say anything. "If you say I told you so, you're not getting any food."

"I would never," Steve lies. He leaves and returns a minute later with a glass of clear liquid and some painkillers.

"Water?" Danny saw that coming, but he's not happy about it. "We just busted six drug dealers. I'm not drinking water."

"You're not drinking beer with those pills." Steve moves the glass closer. Danny hates him. "So what's it gonna be, Danno? Beer or Ibu?"

Danny hates him a lot. He pops the pills and downs the water, and tells Steve just how much he hates him.

Steve is not impressed. "Sure. Dinner?"

They reheat the parmigiana and eat it to the pitter patter of rain on the roof, occasionally interrupted by a flash of lightning or the deep grumble of distant thunder. Danny's in a much better mood already, and it's not just because the painkillers have started to kick in.

"I'm listening." He leans forward, looking at Steve expectantly. "You go ahead and tell me this would taste better if the eggplant was grilled."

Steve, who handles being wrong about as well as a defiant preschooler would, answers by scraping his fork against the plate aggressively and stuffing his mouth with - deliciously fried, thank you - eggplant.

Danny sits back, satisfied. "I told you so."

"You told me so? Seriously?"

"Jesus, man, swallow your food before you talk."

Steve takes a very aggressive sip of beer, then tries again. "So it's okay for you, but if I say it it's off to bed without supper?"

"Got it in one, babe," Danny says, and continues to enjoy his food.

After dinner, they move to the lanai. It's still drizzling lightly but the roof keeps them dry, and Danny almost prefers this to sunshine and flawless blue skies. The air is warm and sweet with the scent of rain and salt and wet sand, and with the moon hidden behind a thick cover of clouds, the ocean lies before them like a sheet of black silk. It's soothing, and it's endless, and the morning with all of its challenges feels years away.

Maybe that's why Danny does it.

"I don't blame you."

He isn't looking at Steve when he says it. He's standing by the railing, hands resting on the wet wood, with Steve a few steps behind him, and he knows, even while the words are leaving his mouth, that this is a bad way to end the night. But Steve needs to hear this.

"Danny-"

"I don't, okay? It's this job, Steve. Bad shit happens."

"Danny." Steve's voice is low, a warning. He's moved closer; Danny can feel the heat of him against his back. It sets him on fire, burns away the late night tranquility and leaves him fuming.

He rounds on Steve, puts a hand flat against Steve's chest, and pushes. The other hand is up, finger too close to Steve's face. He doesn't even know why he's angry; he just knows that he is.

"Don't 'Danny' me. You don't get to take responsibility for this. For fuck's sake, I can take care of myself. It wasn't your job to protect me, I was-"

There are fingers on his jaw, holding him still, and then Steve's right there, trapping Danny's hand between their chests, pressing his lips to Danny's.

The kiss starts out slow and he stills, taken aback by how quickly his anger is evaporating, and then his brain short-circuits and he melts into it. Steve tastes like eggplant and parmesan and beer and none of it matters because he kisses like he fights; wild and focused, skilled and out of control.

It's over too fast. Steve releases him and pulls away, lips shiny and red, and anywhere but at Danny.

"I know you can take care of yourself," he says, too quiet.

And then he's heading inside and a minute later the roar of the Camaro cuts through the night, and Danny is left standing there, dazed and flushed from head to toe. His skin is burning with something he hasn't felt since before Grace's birth, before the spark faded between him and Rachel.

He doesn’t have a thing for Steve.

Except, damn.

He totally does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, sorry for the delay - flu season caught up with me and I could not get my brain to cooperate lol. But here it is!
> 
> I want to thank you all for your wonderful comments, and for your kudos! This is the first thing I've written in an eternity and it's been so much fun, and such a great distraction from everything that's been going on this year. I really hope you like it!

Steve doesn't come home that night. Danny knows this because he spends the whole night on the sofa, staring at the front door like it's going to give him answers to the myriad of questions floating around in his head. It's kind of pathetic and pretty much pointless, because the door remains shut and Steve remains gone and then it's 8 AM and Danny really has to get moving if he doesn't want to be late for work.

He's almost tempted to say fuck it and take the day off, but of course he doesn't. Steve would never drop out on a case that isn't solved, so if Danny wants answers any time soon, he'll get them at HQ.

And he does. He wants answers. Needs them; hell, Steve owes them to him. Last night, before the initial confusion had time to wear off, if Steve had told him then that it was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgement, just leftover adrenaline from the chase acting out, Danny would've probably just let it slide. It would have been easy enough. They could have just ignored it for a couple of months, bottled it up until it became a distant memory they could laugh about.

_ Hey, remember that time you accidentally kissed me? What a _ _hoot, can't believe that happened._

That would be the smart thing to do. You're not supposed to have a thing with your coworkers, anyone knows that. Especially if your coworkers are your only friends because all of your other friends are an ocean away. So, yeah, Danny thinks they could've pulled that off. He could have gone back to his totally platonic appreciation of Steve's frankly offensive good looks, Steve could've gone back to compartmentalizing the hell out of his feelings, and, after a slightly painful period of awkwardness, they would have been totally fine.

Danny would have agreed to that, if Steve had suggested it last night.

But now? Now he's sleep-deprived and annoyed with himself for waiting up for Steve like a desperate teenage girl whose crush hasn't called her back. 

Now, he's standing on Steve's front porch, overlooking a completely empty driveway, and he remembers that Steve drove them home from work in Danny's car last night, which means his truck spent the night at HQ and apparently, so did the Camaro.

Now, Danny is done being confused. He's pissed.

"You're not getting out of this one, Mister," he grumbles to himself and slams the door shut extra hard on his way back inside, because there's no way he's waiting for his cab in the already sweltering heat. "We're having this conversation, like it or not."

That determination lasts until five past nine, when he arrives at the office and finds the team gathered in the war room, already hard at work. Kono is bent over the computer table, Lori is watching her type, and Steve's standing next to the row of screens on the wall, arms folded and brows drawn together as he listens to Chin, nodding every so often.

He's wearing yesterday's clothes, and  Danny's mouth is suddenly very dry. 

He pauses just outside the glass doors. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe Steve got it right, maybe avoiding this is the best course of action. Danny could just leave. He could just go back to Steve's and start packing. He hasn't even checked out of the motel yet. He could always hide there and wait this out until it's ancient history.

He's just started to turn around when Kono spots him and calls him. It's too late for a low profile retreat, so Danny bites the bullet and enters the room.

"Danny, hey." Her fingers have stilled above the virtual keyboard, like his arrival was unexpected and interrupted her train of thought. "Steve said you're not coming in today."

"Oh, he said that?" Steve curls in on himself when Danny looks at him, but he doesn't correct Kono. Danny's anger flares up, briefly, before his nerves drown it out again. "Well, yeah, of course that's what he thinks. He stranded me in Aina Haina. I should arrest you for grand theft auto, McGarrett."

"Okay, clearly you weren't stranded." Steve uncurls from his defensive position just to argue, one hand moving to his hip, the other gesturing loosely at Danny, like his presence is proof of that. "And it's not theft if you get it back at the end of the day."

"That's factually incorrect," says Danny. He's trying for angry, but he's not sure he's pulling it off. "And morally wrong, on multiple levels."

They should talk, right now, get this out of the way before they get caught up in whatever mess awaits them out there, but now that Danny's righteous fury has deserted him, he doesn't know where to begin. So he tells himself it's fine, that the case trumps their weird personal crisis anyway, and pretends not to notice the way Steve freezes up for a second when Danny joins the others at the table.

"So what did I miss? We find our crime scene yet?"

"Three of the guys we arrested yesterday talked," Chin explains, nodding at the mugshots displayed on the screens behind Steve. "They all said they saw our vic, right around ToD."

Danny looks at him suspiciously. "Alright. That's terrific news. Why do I sense a 'but' coming?"

"Well..." Chin taps the table to bring up a map of the island and transfers it to the wall with a flick of his wrist. Danny spots three blue dots, spread out across Honolulu. "That's the thing; their stories don't match up."

Against his better judgement, Danny looks at Steve. It's habit at this point, gauging Steve's reactions to make sure they're on the same page. It's this kind of nonverbal communication that makes their partnership work as well as it does. They can't afford to lose it, not without losing a big part of what makes Five-0 so special, and when Steve meets him like he always does, turning towards Danny without hesitation, something inside of Danny untwists and relaxes.

It could be wishful thinking, but when Steve breaks the moment a second later and faces the screen, he looks less tense too. "So at least two of them lied."

"Or maybe our guy was an even more reckless driver than you," Danny suggests. "I'd say that's impossible but this rock never ceases to surprise me."

That earns him a smirk from Steve, and Danny can breathe easy again. At least for a moment. This doesn't answer a single one of his questions but it gives him hope they'll be able to get past last night, one way or another.

That is, until Steve goes ahead and crushes that hope like a fat bug underneath his combat boots.

"Alright. Chin, you and I, we'll go check these places out, see if we find something that can point us towards the killer. Lori, I want you to talk to the wife again. Ask her if these locations mean anything to her. Kono, Danny, get a list of traffic cams in the area. Maybe he shows up on one of them."

Danny knows he's not the only one who's surprised by this unusual allocation of tasks when Kono pulls back from the table but makes no move to get to work. "Danny and me?"

"Yeah, I think not. You can't put me in charge of the geeky parts of this adventure," Danny argues, flattening his hands against the tabletop. It lights up in an array of colors as new windows pop up left and right, flashing angrily until Chin closes them. Danny leans back and points at the table accusingly. "See? Tech and I, we're not friends. We don't mesh, you know this. If it were up to me I wouldn't even have a cellphone, Steve, I'm not the right person for this job."

"No offense, babe, but you're not the right person for a foot chase either, looking like this." Steve throws a pointed look at the yellowed bruises still lining Danny's face, then drags his eyes down like he's taking in the way Danny's standing, stiff and clearly mindful of his ribs.

Danny's suddenly glad he stopped wearing ties to work. He reaches up to give his collar a subtle tug and hopes he isn't blushing as vividly as the burning in his face suggests.

Flustered or not, he doesn't buy Steve's explanation for a second. He did fine yesterday. This isn't about his injuries, this is about last night, and that's exactly why he doesn't argue. If Steve isn't comfortable around him right now, Danny can't be at his side in the field. Steve might be tempted to act even crazier than he usually does and Danny doesn't want to be responsible for that.

He swallows around the lump in his throat and answers: "Fine."

If Steve's surprised by Danny's easy capitulation, he doesn't let it show. He looks away from him to nod at Chin, who's watching their interaction with a wariness that frightens Danny; but Steve doesn't seem to notice it. "Let's go."

Danny leaves Kono to set things up and makes a trip to Liliha's in the meantime. When he gets back, they settle down at Danny's desk with coffee and coco puffs and start reviewing low quality CCTV footage. All in all, it's not nearly as geeky as Danny feared. It's kind of like a stakeout. A little less boring, actually, because they can fast forward through the unimportant bits.

Danny takes a sip of his coffee, still so hot it almost burns his tongue. "You know, this isn't so bad."

Kono laughs. "You don't mean that. The second he does something reckless, you'll want to be out there with him."

Danny wastes no time trying to tell her she's wrong. They both know she's not. Instead, he decides to try his hand at optimism. "Hey, who knows. Maybe he won't do anything reckless for once. Maybe this'll be the day."

"Yeah, right." Kono reaches into the box in front of them to retrieve a coco puff, but before she can bite into it, something catches her attention. "Hey, isn't that our guy?"

She's pointing at the camera feed showing the corner of King and Maunakea and Danny leans in to get a closer look. The man she's referring to is visible for about four seconds before he gets lost in a group of people standing on the sidewalk, but Kono rewinds the footage to show him again, and it looks like she's right.

"Good eye." He picks up his phone and, after staring at Steve's contact information for a moment, calls Chin and puts him on speaker.

_ "Hey, brah." _

"Kono found him. Third location on the list. He was headed down King Street, towards the Bank of Hawaii, about," he pauses to check the timestamp, "twenty minutes before ToD. We don't know where he went, so keep your eyes peeled for any traces of blood. Max said the body was probably dismembered on scene before he was dumped, right? Sounds messy."

_ "Copy that. We'll be in touch when we get there." _

Licking coco puff crumbs off her fingers, Kono switches back to live footage one-handedly. Ten minutes later the Camaro shows up on their monitor. Thirty seconds after that, a popup window informs them that Chin's and Steve's earpieces and mics are online.

_ "Where did you lose him?" _ That's Steve's voice, slightly distorted, and Danny finds him easily, leaning against the Camaro with one elbow braced on the roof as he surveys their surroundings.

"About a hundred feet down the street," Kono answers. "There's a restaurant to your right. It looked like he walked past that, but we couldn't see what happened then."

_ "We'll check it out." _ On screen, Steve turns to Chin.  _ "Take the other side of the road, in case he doubled back." _

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Danny interrupts him quickly, leaning forward like that's going to make Steve hear him better. "How many times have we talked about this, Steve? You don't split up with your backup."

Steve's facing away, so Danny can't be certain, but he thinks Steve is probably rolling his eyes.  _ "Relax, Danno. We're just looking for the crime scene, not the killer. It'll be fine." _

"Great." Danny fights the urge to hide his face in his hands and grips his coffee cup tighter until the flimsy plastic lid gives an indignant creak. He lets it go and reaches for a coco puff instead. On screen, Steve and Chin start making their way down the street. It's only a few seconds before they're both swallowed by the crowd. "Great, good job. Now you jinxed it."

_ "Don't be so superstitious,"  _ Steve says, and then goes on to prove Danny right when he announces a few minutes later:  _ "I got blood. I'm sending you a picture." _

There's another ping, followed by another pop-up notification which Kono opens with a click. It shows a small alley, separated from the main street by a chain link fence gate. Danny doesn't see anything out of the ordinary until Kono enlarges the picture and Danny realizes that the red spots on the fence post that he thought were rust are something else entirely.

_ "Chin?" _

_ "On my way." _

Kono zooms in some more. "Looks like a hand."

_ "Yeah,"  _ Steve answers,  _ "but whoever left it was wearing gloves. I'm not seeing any prints. I'll-" _

He cuts himself off, and Danny stops chewing. "Steve?"

_ "Did you hear that?" _ His voice has dropped so low he's almost whispering, but Danny can't hear anything except the distant rush of traffic.  _ "I think- oh shit." _

"Oh shit  _ what _ ?" Steve doesn't deign to give them a verbal reply, but the metallic rattling sound filtering through the speakers now tells Danny he's most likely hopping over the fence. Next to him, Kono rolls her chair closer to the desk. Danny drops the uneaten half of his puff, grabs the edge of the table and barks: "Steve? What the hell is going on?"

_ "Got a runner." _

Kono was right. Danny hates this. "Is he armed? Don't go after him, he might be - Steve, for the _love of_ \- just wait for Chin!"

_ "No time. Five-0! Stop right there!"  _

Then, all they can hear are heavy footsteps pounding the concrete.

"I'm going to kill him," Danny announces, talking to no one in particular. "One of these days, I'll be the one causing that crime scene. And it's gonna be his fault."

Kono brushes crumbs off her lap and shrugs. "Told you so."

But Steve gets their guy. Somehow the chase leads them all the way back to the traffic cam, which means Danny and Kono have a front row seat when Steve tackles their runner against the wall and drags him down to the pavement. Danny gets a good look at his face and isn't terribly surprised to discover that it's their main suspect, who dropped off the radar after the murder. When Chin arrives seconds later the guy is zip-tied and scowling, and Steve is grinning up at the camera like he knows they're watching.

Danny doesn't know if he wants to punch him or kiss him, but he knows it's a damn good thing they're not in the same room right now.

"You maniac," he grumbles, hands pressed against his temples. Steve's grin only widens.

_ "Want me to book him, Danno?" _

That settles it. Danny wants to punch him. "I hate you so much."

"So, I think we learned something today."

They're back in the car, _Danny's_ car, and they're on their way home. Steve's still dusty, still bright with adrenaline, still vibrating with energy he hasn't quite managed to burn off, but at Danny's statement, he slides over a careful look.

"What's that?"

"You have an uncanny talent for giving me a heart attack, even when you put me on desk duty."

The hesitant expression morphs into amusement and Steve laughs. "I wasn't actually in danger."

"No, of course not." Danny waves that notion away like it's ridiculous, and hates that Steve probably believes the bullshit coming out of his mouth. "You just took down a coldblooded killer, all by yourself. With no backup. Danger? What danger? That's a walk in the park."

"He wasn't even armed."

Danny scoffs. "Oh yeah? Did you know that when you ran after him? Is it a SEAL thing, do you guys all have laser vision or something? Because unless you can see through fabric, there's no way, Steven, no way in hell you could've known he wasn't secretly packing when you decided to go after him, _all by yourself_ , instead of waiting for backup."

Steve lets him rant, patient, and shrugs when Danny stops to take a breath. He isn't done, but the pause gives Steve time to interject, "That's why I was wearing a vest."

"Oh, you were wearing a vest? Good news, everyone, he was wearing a vest! If you take a bullet to the face I'll put that on your tombstone." Danny draws a banner into the air, like he's already visualizing the inscription. "Here lies Steve McGarrett. He was wearing a vest."

Steve's smiling now. Danny hates him. "Everything turned out fine."

"Yeah. Because you have more luck than brains."

He gets nothing in return but a smirk, and he makes sure to roll his eyes at Steve for that, but their little exchange helped drain away some of the residual anxiety still churning in his gut. It's enough to let him relax into his seat, fingers drumming on his thigh to the rhythm of the surprisingly not-terrible song Steve settled on.

A few minutes later, Steve says, in a voice that's a lot more quiet than before: "Look, man, I'm sorry."

"Yeah? Good. You should be," Danny says, but then he looks over and Steve's frowning, and Danny thinks he may have messed up somehow. "Wait, you're sorry for what?"

"I didn't..." Steve stops himself. His fingers are clutching the wheel so hard Danny wouldn't be surprised if he left dents in the plastic. "I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't... have done that."

"Are we still talking about your death wish?" Danny asks slowly. He has a feeling he knows the answer.

For once, Steve refuses to look away from the road. "We're talking about last night."

"Ah." Danny shifts in his seat. It's suddenly getting harder to breathe. The air feels thick and heavy, and Danny fights the urge to roll down the window.

Steve swallows audibly. "I'm sorry."

This is it, the way out. Danny could accept Steve's apology and they could go back to the way things were before, to harmless touches and meaningless flirting and a friendship always lingering on the precipice of more. Danny rubs his thumb across his bottom lip, recalls the heat of Steve's mouth against his own.

"Why?"

Steve's eyes are narrowed when he finally looks at Danny. "Why what?"

"Why are you sorry? Because you regret it, or because you think I'm pissed?" Danny has to look away, slightly overwhelmed by the weight of Steve's gaze. It turns out to be a good thing. Steve is still staring at him instead of paying attention to the pickup in front of them, which is coming closer at an alarming speed because Steve hasn't taken his foot off the gas since this conversation started. "Eyes on the road! For fuck's sake, Steve!"

Steve yanks at the wheel and sends the Camaro hurtling past the truck, and Danny grabs the handle above the passenger door and narrowly avoids braining himself on the window of his own car. At least five other cars blare their horns at them, the pickup truck included.

"What the hell is wrong with you!"

"What do you mean, because I  _ think  _ you're pissed?"

Danny clutches at his chest, not entirely for show, and sucks in a breath. "I'm starting to think this isn't a conversation we should be having here, in this very fast car that you happen to be steering."

Steve rolls his eyes, hits the brakes and neatly slots the Camaro between a blue delivery truck and a black SUV. It's a perfectly safe, perfectly  _ legal _ maneuver, which is almost as surprising as the fact that he actually continues to drive like a normal person. Five minutes pass and he doesn't even breach the speed limit once.

"Am I dreaming?" Danny makes a show of pinching himself. "Did hell freeze over? Have you been replaced by a pod person? Next you're gonna tell me you actually own a license."

"Tell me what you mean."

"What do I... Jesus. What do you think I mean? Did I complain? Did I seem like an uninterested bystander to you?"

Steve's quiet for a minute. His expression doesn't change, stuck somewhere between Aneurysm Face and wariness, but the blotches of color that appear low on his throat are new. Danny is struck by a strong urge to bite them. Steve must have torn open a floodgate last night.

"No," he says, bringing Danny back to the present.

"No?"

"No." Steve's tongue flickers out, wetting his bottom lip. The temperature rises by about twenty degrees. "No, you were definitely... participating."

Danny allows himself to stare at his lips, doesn't look away except to raise an eyebrow at Steve when Steve turns to look at him again. "So what does that tell you?"

Steve's smirk promises trouble.

"That we should get home fast," he says, and floors the gas.

They make it inside, but it's a close call. Steve steers them through the front door with his hands on Danny's shoulders and Danny backs him up against it with a determined shove, and then they're kissing again and okay, alright, Danny likes this very much indeed. Steve's eager and responsive and his hands leave trails of heat in their wake where they're running down Danny's sides to settle on his hips. They never come near his chest, near his ribs, and the jolt of warmth that shoots through Danny when he realizes this nearly brings him to his knees.

Half-baked cookie, indeed.

He can't stop himself; he has to lean in, has to taste the flushed skin of Steve's throat, has to press his lips to the flutter beneath Steve's pulse point and lick away the sweat gathering between his collarbones. Steve makes a sound like he's been punched and then there are hands on Danny's ass and hello, that's Steve's thigh between his own.

"How's your knee," comes Steve's voice from above him. Danny almost misses the question, too distracted by how wrecked Steve sounds.

When the words do register, he has to pull away. Talk about a nonsequitur.  "We really need to work on your dirty talk, McGarrett."

Steve's grin sends a shiver down his spine. "Need to sit down yet?"

"Why?"

In lieu of an answer, Steve's hands flex on Danny's ass and then he's spinning them around, propping Danny up against the door while he sinks to his knees, right there, in the middle of the hall. Danny swallows thickly.

"Oh." Now he sounds every bit as hoarse as Steve does. "No, no. I'm - good. Great. The knee's fine. I can stand."

"Good," says Steve, "you let me know if that changes."

And then he goes on to confirm suspicions Danny definitely never had, that Steve approaches sex with the same kind of laser focus he employs during missions. He divests Danny of his pants and underwear with military efficiency; one second he's tugging at Danny's belt, the next Danny's hands are scrabbling desperately at the door, failing to find purchase.

"Fuck."

Steve's long fingers wrap around his dick, strong and calloused - so there's a kink Danny never knew he had - and Steve's mouth is close enough that his breath ghosts over the sensitive head like a physical caress. It's less than five strokes before Danny is so hard it hurts, before Steve grins up at him from beneath his lashes and the warmth of his fingers is replaced by the overwhelming heat of his mouth.

" _Fuck_ ," Danny grinds out, hands flying to Steve's shoulders, holding on for dear life. "Steve."

Steve hums and Danny's hips jerk violently. He stutters out an apology but Steve just winks up at him and hooks his thumbs over Danny's hipbones, holding him flat against the wall. Danny tries bucking in his grip, just to test it. He gets nowhere. He groans and digs his nails into Steve's shoulders, hard beneath the soft material of the t-shirt bunching up between Danny's fingers.

Steve's _strong_. Danny knew that already, but somehow it hits different now.

Jesus. Two new kinks, and they're only halfway through one blowjob. He's always known Steve would put him into an early grave; he just thought there'd be a lot more bullets involved. Turns out this is just as deadly.

Steve pushes his wet tongue up against the sensitive spot beneath the head and trails it down the vein, taking Danny as far as he can, fingers covering what he doesn't reach. When he comes back up it's torturously slow. Danny's back arches with it, and when he breathes out Steve's name again, it sounds a hell of a lot like " _Please_."

Steve hums again, repeats the move but doesn't speed up; giving Danny just enough to bring him to the edge and keep him there, never enough to push him over. His eyes never leave Danny's, not once.

It's approximately three more minutes of this until Steve changes his pace, and by then Danny's gone from kind-of-begging to cursing Steve's very existence with every breath he can spare. He's losing his mind. He's _dying_. Steve's going to drive him crazy, and he's going to do it with a stretched-out smirk and a sparkle in his eyes, and Danny really shouldn't love him for it.

"Babe," he rasps out, tugging at the short hair at the back of Steve's neck. Steve's lids flutter, but he doesn't stop watching Danny. " _Babe_. You're killing me here, just, fuck, _please_ -"

Steve pulls back, cheeks hollowing out, then bobs back down and sneaks a finger behind Danny's balls at the same time, pressing down _hard_ , and Danny's vision whites out.

He comes with his hands on Steve's shoulders and Steve's name on his lips and with the crystal clear realization that there's no coming back from this. Whatever happens next, they can't pretend this never happened.

Right now, Danny's more than fine with that.

Steve holds him through the aftershocks, forehead pressed against Danny's abdomen. One of his hands falls away, but Danny doesn't question it until Steve stutters a harsh breath against the top of his thigh, followed by a quiet curse that echoes through the blissful haze clouding Danny's thoughts.

"Did you just..." He peels his head away from the door to look down and sure enough, Steve's hand has disappeared down the front of his pants.

He hasn't even taken off his _pants_.

Danny's floating way too high right now to even begin feeling like an ass, but he gives Steve's shoulder a gentle pat, apologetic and lazy.

"You know, babe, you could've just asked. I've told you before, I'm a very generous person."

"I'll keep that in mind," Steve says, and fuck, his _voice_. As he gets up, he slides his hands from Danny's hips to the small of his back to hold him up.

Danny can't stop staring at him. Steve's always hot, it's a fact of life, but _this_ , his messy hair and his flushed cheeks and his grin, so bright it hurts to look at, this is devastating.

After a moment, the grin falters. "You okay?"

Danny just has to kiss him. He can't not. That ridiculous man. He snakes his arms around Steve's shoulders and keeps him close, even after they pull apart.

"Okay. _Okay_." Steve raises a single questioning brow, and Danny pokes him in the chest. "No, Steven. No, I'm not _okay_. You're - god. Far be it from me to satiate your ridiculous competitive streak but that was, I mean, you were, very much, well, _up there_."

The grin is back, more blinding than before. Danny's gonna need sunglasses if Steve keeps this up.

"I was asking about your knee, babe. Good to hear I blew your mind, though."

"Uh huh." Danny slips his hand around the back of Steve's neck. "Stop gloating. It's unattractive."

"You love it," Steve smirks against his lips, but when he tries to deepen the touch into a proper kiss, Danny pushes him back.

"You didn't even take off your shirt," he complains. Honestly, what the hell. With abs like Steve's, that's a crime.

Steve huffs out a laugh. "Didn't seem like you noticed."

"I'm noticing _now_."

"Wanna do it for me?"

Danny snorts, "What the hell do you think?" and starts pulling Steve towards the couch. ****

When they move outside a few hours later, the sun is nothing more than a fiery sliver above the horizon, bathing the beach in a warm orange glow that paints Steve's skin a shade of gold so deep the fresh hickeys below his collarbone are barely visible. Danny confirms they're still there by reaching across the gap between their chairs and curling his hand over Steve's shoulder, digging his fingers into the marks until Steve shivers. Danny waits him out, waits to see if Steve will push him away.  He doesn't.

That's how they end up staying like this, sitting as far apart as they always do but still together, still touching, still angled towards each other, both of them focused on the other even as they're watching the setting sun play across the waves.

The temperature drops. The difference isn't huge but to Danny and his lack of a shirt, it's noticeable. The only part of him that feels warm is his arm, where Steve's body heat seeps into his skin like sunlight. Danny slides his hand higher, rubs his fingertips through the short hairs at the back of Steve's neck, and Steve shivers again and slumps into the touch like a puppet with its strings cut.

It's intoxicating.

It's easy, too. It's so much easier than it should be. Danny's never had anything that felt like this right from the get-go. Gabby, Rachel, the few women and fewer guys who came before her - it was always awkward in the beginning. Not a bad kind of awkward; just the new kind, the kind that comes with letting someone dig out their own little space in your life. 

With Steve, there's none of that. Steve's had his space in Danny's life for years. Everything about Steve, about them, is familiar. There's no strange tension, no awkwardness. They did all that a lifetime ago, when they went from being strangers to being partners, friends, family.

This progression feels natural, new as it might be. Twenty-four hours ago, Danny had no idea that Steve could drive him crazy in more ways than one, and that one of the ways in which Steve drives him crazy is best dealt with by pressing his lips to Steve's and running his hands over Steve's skin until Steve's pliant and agreeable for once. Now he knows, and it makes perfect sense.

Although, maybe that isn't exactly true. Maybe he's known for a while, deep down. Maybe that's why this isn't surprising. Maybe he just never had the guts to acknowledge it. He's always been great at lying to himself when the truth scares him, and having feelings for Steve, his partner, his best friend, that's one hell of a truth.

It's a truth that should scare him. But Danny couldn't be less scared.

A warm hand curves around his biceps and startles him out of his musings. Danny looks over, finds Steve's lips curling at the edges.

"You think as loudly as you talk." He's still leaning into Danny's touch, trapping Danny's hand between his cheek and the rough wood of the chair. "It's pretty impressive."

"I guess it would be, to you." Danny doesn't move. His pinky is tucked underneath Steve's jaw, where his skin is hot and prickly with stubble. "Given that thinking about anything for more than a second is a foreign concept to you. I swear, this thing has no purpose except looking pretty."

He taps a finger against Steve's temple and Steve's smile widens. It sinks into Danny's chest like a physical touch, warms him up from the inside.

He's so screwed.

"You calling me pretty?"

"I'm calling you an idiot," Danny clarifies and pulls his hand back just so he can cover Steve's face with it and push him away. That's what he wants to do, anyway. His hand has a mind of its own, it seems, because somehow he ends up cupping Steve's cheek instead, ends up leaning in for a kiss.

Steve meets him halfway, but breaks the contact before Danny has a chance to deepen it.

"You gonna tell me what you're thinking about?"

"Thought that was pretty clear, what with the kissing and all," Danny says, gesturing between the two of them with the hand that isn't glued to Steve's skin. "You asking me to talk dirty to you, McGarrett?"

Steve doesn't even blink. If he blushes, the near-darkness swallows it. He looks serious. "Danny."

Steve McGarrett, asking to talk about  _ feelings _ . Danny's eyebrows meet his hairline and his hand stills in mid-air. Somewhere on this island, pigs must be flying.

He thinks about teasing Steve, but that's not how he wants to reward this rare display of emotional maturity. Instead, he swipes his thumb down Steve's cheekbone and shrugs.

"I'm not freaking out, if that's what you're scared of." Steve opens his mouth, probably to protest that he's not scared, so Danny lets go of his face and cuts him off with his hands, palms out. "Shut up. You asked, so you're gonna let me answer. Okay? Okay. I'm not freaking out, I'm not planning my escape to the mainland, you're not gonna find my resignation letter on your desk tomorrow, and I'm not mentally going through my finances to figure out if I can afford fake passports for me and Gracie, either."

"But?"

"No buts," Danny assures him. "No buts. That's what I was thinking about. I _should_ be freaking out. There are a thousand ways this thing could go sideways. A _million_ ways." 

And there are a million ways to misinterpret what he just said, but Steve wouldn't be Steve if he didn't get him. He doesn't take offense, doesn't shut down. Instead, he smiles. It's small but it's there. "But you're not freaking out."

Danny drops his hands. One of them lands on Steve's chest, scarred and warm.

"But I'm not freaking out."

This time Steve's the one who leans, and Danny's the one who meets him and who breaks the kiss later, when his lungs start screaming.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and when it pushes against his tender ribs it's easy to focus on Steve's hand on his waist instead, offering a point of contact, of comfort. Danny exhales slowly and lets the heat of that touch wash over him. Behind them, the sun has drowned in a sea of stars, tiny pinpricks of light sparkling in the waves rolling towards the shore. A soft breeze strokes across their skin, cool with the promise of rain. It carries with it the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers and Steve's coconut sunscreen.

And Danny is home.


End file.
